m 


T.A 


ILLIAM  C.  MORR1S 


MODERN  VERSE 


MODERN  VERSE 


BRITISH  AND   AMERICAN 


EDITED  BY 

ANITA  P.  FORBES,  M.A. 

•WEA\T;R  HIGH  SCHOOL,  HARTFORD,  CONX. 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


COPTRIQHT,    1921 
BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

July,  1934 

N.  R.  A. 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  S.  A. 


FOREWORD 

In  looking  over  the  anthologies  of  poetry  on  the  shelves  of 
any  well-equipped  public  library,  one  thinks  of  the  rats  that 
followed  the  Pied  Piper.  There  are  war  poems,  love  poems,  sad 
poems,  funny  poems,  old  poems,  new  poems,  child  poems,  col- 
lege poems,  poems  of  the  city,  poems  of  the  country — antholo- 
gies by  tens  and  dozens.  In  the  latest  additions  to  these 
we  take  particular  pride,  for  they  represent  the  verse  of  our 
own  age. 

Modern  poetry  is  worth  being  proud  of  for  at  least  two 
reasons.  First,  it  appeals  to  many  different  types  of  people. 
Whether  one  is  looking  for  poems  that  are  heroic,  fanciful, 
humorous,  or  thoughtful — poems  on  any  subject  from  the 
steel  industry  to  the  immortality  of  the  soul — poems  of  the 
loftiest  imagination  or  the  tenderest  human  interest — he  will 
find  his  desires  gratified.  In  no  other  period  of  English  liter- 
ature has  poetry  been  so  varied,  so  like  an  elaborate  prism 
which  flashes  new  beauty  to  each  eye.  For  never  before  has 
it  refracted  the  light  of  so  many  and  such  different  person- 
alities. It  has  been  said  that  every  one  can  write  at  least 
one  good  poem ;  and  nowadays  he  can  usually  get  it  published. 
The  name  of  our  young  poets  is  Legion.  Moreover,  many  of 
our  poets,  even  the  best-known  ones,  have  wide  interests  besides 
their  poetry.  They  may  be  newpaper  men,  lawyers,  college 
professors,  army  officers,  social  workers.  The  great  emotional 
stimulus  of  the  war  drove  vigorous,  practical  men  and  women 
of  all  ages  and  occupations  to  the  discovery  that  poetry  might 
be  a  solace  and  joy  not  only  to  the  student  or  visionary,  but 
to  the  average  person. 

The  technique  of  modern  poetry  is  no  less  free,  novel  and 


1G371.S9 


vf  FOREWORD 

richly  varied  than  its  viewpoint  and  ideas.  Never  before  has 
the  English  language  been  molded  into  so  many  poetic 
shapes,  some  old,  some  new,  some  fantastic,  many  beautiful. 
Standard  forms  like  blank  verse,  the  sonnet,  the  couplet,  the 
ballad  stanza;  free  verse  or  polyphonic  prose,  woven  in  as 
many  patterns  as  there  are  poets;  imitations  and  adaptations 
of  French,  Greek,  Japanese  verse-forms — we  find  them  all, 
and  many  others,  in  the  constant  stream  that  pours  out  of 
this  poetic  melting-pot.  Whatever  the  form,  the  diction  is 
usually  simple  and  forceful,  much  like  that  of  the  best  con- 
temporary speech.  There  is  very  little  inverted  order ;  there 
are  few  threadbare  or  over-extended  metaphors.  We  also 
like  modern  verse  for  its  conciseness.  The  average  poem 
of  to-day  is  short,  and  for  that  reason  the  thought  or  image 
which  it  contains  is  the  more  likely  to  arrest  and  grip  our 
attention. 

Of  course,  no  sensible  person  would  claim  that  his  own 
age  had  a  monopoly  of  fine  poetry  any  more  than  a  monopoly 
of  great  men.  Our  contemporary  poets  themselves  would  be 
the  last  ones  to  urge  that  we  read  their  verses  instead  of  those 
by  the  older  masters,  for  they  appreciate  more  fully  than  we 
what  is  meant  by  poetic  heritage.  John  Masefield's  writing 
has  been  much  influenced  by  his  admiration  for  Chaucer. 
Amy  Lowell,  for  years,  was  a  devoted  student  of  Keats.  All 
they  do  ask  is  that  we  read  their  verses  in  addition  to  the  old, 
world-famous  ones,  and  value  old  and  new  alike  at  their  true 
worth.  In  fact,  many  a  person  has  found  that — paradoxical 
as  it  sounds — the  more  vitally  he  is  interested  in  contemporary 
literature,  the  more  vitally  he  becomes  interested  in  standard 
literature.  For  the  present  can  never  be  fully  interpreted 
save  in  the  light  of  the  past. 

Still,  we  owe  a  definite  debt  to  our  own  generation.  No 
literature  can  reach  its  highest  level  without  enthusiastic  and 
intelligent  readers.  If  we  believe  that  from  the  struggles, 


FOREWORD  vii 

questionings,  and  aspirations  of  this  age  there  are  to  emerge 
a  few  great  poets  who  will  guide  us  along  the  path  of  vision, 
we  must  prepare  ourselves  to  understand  and  follow  them. 
We  must  read  contemporary  verse  with  discrimination  and 
yet  with  appreciation ;  we  must  talk  about  it  freely  and  natu- 
rally ;  we  must  pass  on  what  we  like  to  our  friends.  1 
remember  that  one  day  I  overheard  two  boys  who  were 
talking  as  they  looked  over  my  bookcases  for  something  to 
read.  Said  one,  "Rhymes  of  a  Red  Cross  Man?  Sure!  I'll 
show  you  a  peach  of  a  poem  in  that ! ' ' 

In  that  spirit,  then,  this  book  passes  to  other  American 
school-boys  and  school-girls  some  modern  poems  which  my  own 
pupils  have  liked.  For  two  years  I  have  been  reading  con- 
temporary verse  aloud  to  junior  and  senior  classes — or  getting 
them  to  read  it — and  finding  out  what  poems  were  favorites 
with  the  majority.  The  collection  is  a  very  simple  one;  it 
doesn't  pretend  to  trace  recent  poetic  development  or  to  be 
all-inclusive.  Even  the  Notes  at  the  back  of  the  book  serve 
merely  to  point  out  trails  which  readers  may  follow  for  them- 
selves. Sooner  or  later,  most  people  discover  that  the  verse  of 
their  own  age  is  a  source  of  real  literary  pleasure.  Why  not 
make  that  discovery  early? 

Formal  acknowledgments  to  the  publishers  and  authors 
who  have  permitted  the  use  of  the  poems  are  made  on  the  fol- 
lowing pages.  Informal,  but  equally  sincere  thanks  are  due 
to  others.  Helen  Miller,  H.  P.  H.  S.  1919;  Lester  Klimm, 
H.  P.  H.  S.  1920;  and,  in  fact,  all  my  upper-class  pupils  of 
the  last  two  years  have  been  my  "collaborators"  in  a  very  real 
sense  of  the  word ;  and  the  most  helpful  advice  and  suggestions 
have  been  contributed  by  Miss  Hazeltine,  Miss  Brann  and 
Mr.  Hitchcock,  my  fellow-teachers  and  friends. 

A.  P.  F. 
Hartford,  Conn., 

October,  1920. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

To  the  following  publishers,  authors,  and  individual 
holders  of  copyrights  my  thanks  are  due  for  their  ready 
and  generous  cooperation  in  granting  formal  permission 
to  reprint  material : 

To  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  for  "The  Ancient  Beau- 
tiful Things,"  by  Fannie  Stearns  Davis. 

To  MESSRS.  BARSB  &  HOPKINS  for  "Funk"  (from 
Rhymes  of  a  Red  Cross  Man]  by  Robert  Service. 

To  MR.  B.  II.  BLACKWELL  for  "Dagonet,  Arthur's 
Fool"  (from  Aldebaran)  by  M.  St.  Clare  Byrne,  and 
"Rufus  Prays"  (from  Oxford  Poetry,  1916)  by  L.  A.  G. 
Strong.  For  this  latter  poem,  additional  acknowledg- 
ment is  made  to  MESSRS.  LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  Co.,  the 
American  publishers. 

To  MESSRS.  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY  for  the  poem  by 
James  Whitcomb  Riley.  (Footnote  in  connection  with 
poem.) 

To  BRENTANO'S  for  "The  Shadow  People"  and  "To 
a  Distant  One"  from  Complete  Poems  of  Francis  Led- 
widge. 

To  Miss  ABBIE  FAR-WELL  BROWN  for  "Pirate  Treas- 
ure" (from  Heart  of  New  England,  published  by  Hough- 
ton  Mifflin  Company.) 

To  THE  CENTURY  COMPANY  for  the  poem  by  Gale 
Young  Rice.  (Footnote  in  connection  with  poem.) 

To  MR.  A.  J.  EARDLEY  DAWSON  for  "Night  in  Meso- 
potamia" (from  Night  Winds  of  Araby,  published  by 
Grant  Richards,  Ltd.) 

ix 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

To  MESSRS.  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY  for  ' '  My  Sweet 
Brown  Gal"  (from  Lyrics  of  Love  and  Laughter]  by 
Paul  Laurence  Dunbar,  and  "To  a  Poet — By  Spring" 
(from  Baubles]  by  Carolyn  Wells.  (Footnote  in  connec- 
tion with  poem  by  Mr.  Dunbar.) 

To  MESSRS.  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY  for  poems  by 
Amelia  Josephine  Burr,  Walter  Prichard  Eaton,  Aline 
Kilmer,  Joyce  Kilmer,  Christopher  Morley,  Dora  Siger- 
son,  Cicely  Fox  Smith,  Charles  Hanson  Towne.  (Foot- 
notes in  connection  with  poems.) 

To  MESSRS.  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  AND  COMPANY  for  ''A 
Creed"  (from  The  Shoes  of  Happiness)  by  Edwin 
Markham;  to  these  publishers  and  Mr.  Kudyard  Kip- 
ling (through  Messrs  A.  P.  Watt  &  Son)  for  "The  Feet 
of  The  Young  Men,"  "If,"  and  "Recessional,"  from 
Rudijard  Kipling's  Verse;  Inclusive  Edition. 

To  MESSRS.  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY  for  poems  by 
Burges  Johnson,  Winifred  M.  Letts,  Siegfried  Sassoon, 
and  Herbert  Trench.  (Footnotes  in  connection  with 
poems.)  Additional  acknowledgment  is  made  to  Mr. 
Trench. 

To  THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY  for  "The  Faun  Sees 
Snow  for  the  First  Time"  (from  Images — Old  and  New) 
by  Richard  Aldington. 

To  MESSRS.  HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  HOWE,  INC.  for  "Da 
Younga  'Merican"  (from  Canzoni)  and  "Een  Napoli" 
(from  Carmina)  by  T.  A.  Daly;  and  "Prayer"  (from 
Challenge)  by  Louis  Untermeyer. 

To  MESSRS.  HARPER  &  BROTHERS  for  poems  by  Dana 
Burnet,  Charles  Buxton  Going,  Arthur  Guiterman,  and 
Captain  Cyril  Morton  Home.  (Footnotes  in  connection 
with  poems.) 

To  MESSRS.  HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY  for  "An  Old 
Woman  of  the  Roads"  (from  Wild  Earth)  by  Padraic 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xi 

Colum;  "The  Ship  of  Rio"  (from  Peacock  Pie]  and 
"The  Sunken  Garden"  (from  Motley]  by  Walter  de  la 
Mare;  "To  the  Thawing  Wind"  (from  A  Boy's  Will], 
"After  Apple-Picking"  (from  Mountain  Interval]  and! 
"Birches"  (from  North  of  Boston],  by  Kobert  Frost; 
"Fog"  (from  Chicagb  Poems],  "Prayers  of  Steel"  and 
"Three  Pieces  on  the  Smoke  of  Autumn"  (from  Corn- 
huskers)  by  Carl  Sandburg;  "Haymaking"  (from, 
Poems)  by  Edward  Thomas;  "Highmount"  (from 
These  Times)  by  Louis  Untermeyer;  "The  Factories" 
and  "Gifts"  (from  Factories)  and  "Mary,  Helper  of 
Heartbreak"  (from  The  Old  Road  to  Paradise),  by 
Margaret  Widdemer. 

To  MR.  BRIAN  HOOKER  for  "A  Man-Child's  Lullaby" 
(from  Poems,  published  by  Yale  University  Press) . 

To  MESSRS.  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY  for  selec- 
tions from  the  poems  of  Grace  Hazard  Conkling,  John 
Drinkwater,  John  Gould  Fletcher,  and  Josephine  Pres- 
ton Peabody.  These  selections  are  used  by  permission 
of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Houghton  Mifflin 
Company,  the  authorized  publishers  of  their  works. 

To  MR.  B.  W.  HUEBSCH  for  "High-Tide"  (from  Grow- 
ing Pains)  by  Jean  Starr  Untermeyer,  copyright  1918. 

To  THE  INDEPENDENT  for  "Provincetown"  by  Marie 
Louise  Hersey. 

To  MR.  MITCHELL  KENNERLEY  for  "God's  World" 
(from  Renascence,  and  Other  Poems)  by  Edna  St.  Vin- 
cent Millay. 

To  MR.  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF  for  "America"  (from  Mush- 
rooms) by  Alfred  Kreymborg;  for  "Psalm  to  My  Be- 
loved" (from  Body  and  Raiment)  by  Eunice  Tietjens; 
and  to  him  as  the  American  publisher  of  "A  Greeting" 
(from  Poems)  by  W.  H.  Davies;  "To  Lucasta,  On  Going 
to  the  War — for  the  Fourth  Time"  (from  Fairies  and 


[  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Fusiliers)  by  Robert  Graves;  "Sonnet"  (from  Poems — 
First  Series)  by  J.  C.  Squire.  Separate  acknowledgment 
is  made  to  Mr.  Davies'  English  publisher,  MR.  ELKIN 
MATHEWS;  additional  acknowledgment  is  here  made  to 
Mr.  Graves  (through  Mr.  James  B.  Pinker)  and  Mr. 
Squire  (through  Messrs  A.  P.  Watt  &  Son). 

To  MESSRS.  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY  for  "Song,"  "The 
Great  Lover,"  "The  Soldier"  (from  Collected  Poems  of 
Rupert  Brooke)  •  for  "May  is  Building  Her  House" 
(from  The  Lonely  Dancer)  by  Richard  Le  Gallienne; 
to  these  publishers  and  to  Mr.  Le  Gallienne  for 
"Brooklyn  Bridge  at  Dawn"  (from  New  Poems)  ;  to 
them  and  to  Mr.  Ford  Madox  Hueffer  for  "The  Old 
Houses  of  Flanders"  (for  On  Heaven  and  Poems 
Written  in  Active  Service). 

To  PROF.  JOHN  A.  LOMAX,  editor  of  Cowboy  Songs 
(published  by  The  Macmillan  Company)  from  "The 
Cow-boy's  Dream." 

To  MESSRS.  ERSKINE  MACDONALD,  LTD.  for  "The  Dawn 
Patrol"  (title  poem)  by  Paul  Bewsher. 

To  MESSRS.  MACMILLAN  &  Co.,  LTD.  (London)  for  "The 
Penalty  of  Love"  (from  Poems  of  the  Unknown  Way)  by 
Sidney  Royse  Lysaght,  and  "Continuity"  (from  Col- 
lected Poems)  by  A.  E. 

To  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY  for  poems  by  John  Ken- 
drick  Bangs,  Mary  Carolyn  Davies,  Fannie  Stearns 
Davis,  Wilfn'd  Wilson  Gibson,  Hermann  Hagedorn, 
Ralph  Hodgson,  Vachel  Lindsay,  Amy  Lowell,  Percy 
MacKaye,  John  Masefield,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Harriet 
Monroe,  Sara  Teasdale,  and  W.  B.  Yeats.  (Footnotes  in 
connection  with  poems.)  Special  additional  acknowl- 
edgment is  made  to  Mr.  Masefield.  and  to  Mr.  Yeats 
(through  Messrs.  A.  P.  Watt  &  Son). 

To  MR.  ELKIN  MATHEWS  for  "The  Dead  to  the  Living" 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xiii 

(from  The  New  World}  by  Laurence  Binyon,  and  "A 
Greeting"  (from  Foliage)  by  W.  H.  Davies. 

To  MESSRS.  DAVID  MCKAY  COMPANY  for  "In  Service" 
(from  Songs  from  Leinster)  by  Winifred  M.  Letts. 

To  THE  OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS  for  "A  Vignette" 
(from  Collected  Poems]  by  Robert  Bridges. 

To  POETRY,  A  MAGAZINE  OF  VERSE  for  "Parting"  by 
Alice  Corbin  Henderson,  and  "Ellis  Park"  by  Helen 
Hoyt. 

To  THE  POETRY  BOOKSHOP  (London)  for  "Peaple" 
(from  Spring  Morning]  by  Frances  D.  Cornford. 

To  MESSRS.  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS  for  "The  Devil" 
(from  Poetical  Works  of  William  Henry  Drummond)  ; 
for  "In  Flanders  Fields"  (title  poem)  by  John  McCrae. 
(Footnotes  in  connection  with  poems.) 

To  MESSRS.  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS  for  "Courage" 
(from  Moods,  Songs  and  Doggerel)  by  John  Galsworthy; 
"The  Green  Inn"  (from  Scribner's  Magazine)  by  Theo- 
dosia  Garrison;  "To  My  Brother"  (from  Service  and 
Sacrifice)  by  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson;  "Richard 
Cory"  (from  Children  of  the  Night)  by  Edwin  Arling- 
ton Robinson  ;  "I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death"  (from 
Poems)  by  Alan  Seeger;  "A  Mile  With  Me"  (from  The 
Poems  of  Henry  van  Dyke). 

To  MR.  MARTIN  SECKER  for  "The  Old  Ships"  (from 
Collected  Poems)  by  James  Elroy  Flecker. 

To  MESSRS.  SIDGWICK  AND  JACKSON,  LTD.  for  "The 
Old  Soldier"  (from  Flower  of  Youth)  by  Katherine 
Tynan. 

To  MESSRS.  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY  for  the  poem 
by  Bliss  Carman  and  the  poem  by  Bliss  Carman  and 
Richard  Hovey.  Additional  acknowledgment  is  made  to 
Mr.  Carman.  (Footnotes  in  connection  with  poems.) 

To  MESSRS.  STEWART  AND  KIDD  COMPANY  for  "Thp 


xiv  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Little  Golden  Fountain"  (title  poem)  by  Mary  Mac- 
Millan. 

To  MESSRS.  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY  for  poems 
by  Witter  Bynner,  Hilda  Conkling,  Theodore  Maynard, 
Robert  Nichols,  and  Alfred  Noyes.  (Footnotes  in  con- 
nection with  poems.) 

To  the  BOSTON  EVENING  TRANSCRIPT  for  "The  Small 
Town  Celebrates"  by  Karle  Wilson  Baker,  and  "The 
Shepherd  to  the  Poet"  by  Agnes  Kendrick  Gray. 

To  the  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS  for  "Good  Company" 
(from  Blue  Smoke)  by  Karle  Wilson  Baker;  for  "The 
Horse-Thief"  (from  Burglars  of  the  Zodiac)  by  Wil- 
liam Rose  Benet.  Additional  acknowledgment  is  made 
to  Mr.  Benet. 

It  gives  me  pleasure,  also,  to  thank  the  following 
authors  for  letters  containing  not  only  personal  per- 
mission, but,  in  many  cases,  interesting  information  and 
suggestions : 

Mrs.  Baker,  Mr.  Bangs,  Mr.  Benet,  Mr.  Bridges,  Miss 
Brown,  Mr.  Burnet,  Mr.  Bynner,  Miss  Byrne,  Mr.  Car- 
man, Mr.  Colum,  Mr.  Daly,  Miss  Davies,  Mr.  Dawson, 
Mr.  de  la  Mare,  Mr.  Drinkwater,  Mr.  Eaton,  Mrs.  Theo- 
dosia  Garrison  Faulks,  Mrs.  Sara  Teasdale  Filsinger, 
Mrs.  Marie  Louise  Hersey  Forbes,  Mr.  Frost,  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy, Mr.  Gibson,  Mrs.  Fannie  Stearns  Davis  Gifford, 
Mr.  Going,  Miss  Gray,  Mr.  Guiterman,  Mr.  Hagedorn, 
Mrs.  Henderson,  Mrs.  Katherine  Tynan  Hinkson,  Mrs. 
Carolyn  Wells  Houghton,  Mr.  Hooker,  Miss  Hoyt,  Mr. 
Hueffer,  Mr.  Johnson,  Mr.  Le  Gallienne,  Miss  Letts,  Mr. 
Lindsay,  Prof.  Lomax,  Miss  Lowell,  Mr.  Lysaght,  Mr. 
MacKaye,  Miss  MacMillan,  Mr.  Markham,  Mrs.  Joseph- 
ine Preston  Peabody  Marks,  Mr.  Masefield,  Mr.  Masters, 
Mr.  Maynard,  Miss  Millay,  Miss  Monroe.  Mr.  Morley, 
Mr.  Nichols,  Mr.  Noyes,  Mr.  Rice,  Mrs.  Robinson,  Mr. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xv 

Robinson,  Mr.  Russell,  Mr.  Sandburg,  Mr.  Sassoon,  Mrs. 
Margaret  Widdemer  Schauffler,  Miss  Smith,  Mr.  Squire, 
Mr.  Strong,  Mr.  Towne,  Mr.  Trench,  Mrs.  Untermeyer, 
Mr.  Untermeyer,  Dr.  van  Dyke,  Mr.  Yeats. 


CONTENTS 

THE  SEA 

PAGE 

SEA-FEVER John   Masefield        .      .      .      .  3 

WILD    \YEAIHER Fam.ie  Sleanu   Davis       .      .  4 

HIGH-TIDE Jean  Starr  Lntermeyer      .      .  5 

SAILOB    TOWN C.  Fox  Smith 5 

TUB  SHIP  OF  Rio Walter  de  la  Mare       ...  7 

OLD  ANCHOR  CHAJVTY Herbert   Trench       ....  7 

IRRADIATIONS John  Gould  Fletcher     .      .      .11 

CARGOES         John    Masejleld        ....  12 

THE    OLD    SHIPS James   Elroy   Flecker        .      .  12 

SING  A  SONG  o'  SHIPWRECK  .      .      .   John   Alasefield        ....  14 

PIRATE  TREASURE Abbie  Far  well  Brown       .      .  16 

THE  CITY 

FOG Carl    Sandburg        ....  21 

BROOKLYN  BRIDGE  AT  DAWN  .      .      .    Richard   Le   Gallienne       .      .  21 

EKN    NAPOIJI T.    A.   Daly 22 

CITY  ROOFS Charles  Hanson  Towne      .      .  23 

BROADWAY Hermann  Hagedorn      ...  23 

THE  PEDDLER Hermann  Hagedorn      ...  24 

ROSES   IN   THE  SUBWAY    ....   Dana  Burnet 25 

THE    FACTORIES Margaret  Widdemer      ...  26 

PRAYERS    CF    STEEL Carl    Sandburg        ....  27 

ELLIS    PARK Helen   Hoyt 28 

THE   PARK Dana  Burnet 29 

AT    TWILIGHT Harriet  Monroe       ....  30 

IN   LADY   STREET John  Drinkwater     .     .     .     .31 

THE  BABREL-ORGAN Alfred  Noyes 34 

THE  COUNTRY 

THE  GREEN   INN Theodosia  Garrison      ...  43 

THE    FEET    OF    THE   YOUNG    MEN 

1897 Rudj/ard  Kipling     ....  44 


xviii  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

To  THE  THAWING  WIND  .... 

Robert  Frost       .... 

.     48 

MISTEB  HOP-TOAD   

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

.     49 

To  A  POET   

Carolyn    Wells 

.      50 

MAY  is  BUILDING  HER  HOUSE   . 

Richard   Le   Gallienne 

.     51 

A  MOUNTAIN  GATEWAY    .... 

Bliss  Carman      .... 

.     53 

HAYMAKING        

Edward  Thomas 

.     54 

AN   INDIAN   SUMMER  DAY  ON   THE 

PRAIRIE           

Vachel  Lindsay 

.     56 

A  GREETING       .           

William  H.  Davies 

.     57 

A    VAGABOND    SONG    

Bliss  Carman  and 

THREE   PIECES   ON   THE   SMOKE   OF 

Richard  Hovey 

.     58 

AUTUMN        

Carl    Sandburg 

.     58 

GOD'S  WORLD      

Edna.  St.  Vincent  Millay  . 

.      60 

AFTER  APPLE-PICKING       .... 

Robert  Frost      .... 

.     60 

BROTHER  BEASTS    

Gale  Young  Rice 

.      62 

BIRCHES        

Robert  Frost      .... 

.      63 

HIGHMOUNT        

Louis    Untermeyer 

.     65 

A  VIGNETTE       ...           ... 

Robert   Bridges 

.     67 

THE  WORLD'S  MISER     

Theodore   Maynard 

.      68 

GOOD  COMPANY       

Karle  Wilson  Baker 

.     70 

IRRADIATIONS      

John  Gould  Fletcher 

.     70 

TREES       

Joyce  Kilmer      .... 

.     71 

NlGHT-PlECE         

Siegfried    Sassoor* 

.     71 

THE  FINAL  SPURT       

JoJ/n    Masefield 

.     72 

THE  HORSE  THIEF       

William  Rose  Benet 

.     75 

WAR 

THE  RETURN      

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

.     83 

THE  ROAD  OF  THE  REFUGEES  . 

Dora    Sigerson 

.     83 

THE  BOMBARDMENT 

Amy   Lowell                           . 

84 

THE  OLD  HOUSES  OF  FLANDERS  . 

Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

.     87 

RHEIMS    CATHEDRAL  —  1914    . 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 

.      88 

THE  OLD  SOLDIER    

Katharine  Tynan 

.     89 

FUNK             

Robert   W.   Service 

.     90 

THE   DEVOUT  HIGHLANDER     . 

Cyril  Morton  Home 

.     91 

THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD     .... 

W.  M.  Letts       .... 

.     94 

THE  SOLDIER                 

Rupert    Brooke 

.     95 

I     HAVE     A     RENDEZVOUS     WITH 

DEATH 

Alan  Seeqer 

95 

CONTENTS  xix 

PAGE 

IN   FLANDERS   FIELDS        ....  John  McCrae 96 

THE  DEAD  TO  THE  LIVING      .      .      .  Laurence  Binyon     .      .      .      .97 

COUNTER-ATTACK          Siegfried  Sa$soon    ....     98 

NOON Robert    Nichols        ....     99 

To  LUCASTA  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WAR 

— FOR  THE  FOURTH  TIME     .      .      .  Robert  Graves 100 

RETREAT Wilfrid  W.  Gibson       .      .      .   101 

NIGHT   IN    MESOPOTAMIA        .      .      .  A.  J.  E.  Dawson      .      .      .      .102 

DOES    IT   MATTER? Siegfried    Bassoon         .      .      .103 

THE  DAWN  PATROL Paul      Bewsher,      R.  N.  A.  S., 

D.S.C 103 

AN   OPEN  BOAT Alfred  Noyes 105 

ADMIRAL    DUGOUT         C.  Fox  Smith 105 

"THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES"   .      .  Alfred  Noyes 107 

PRAYER  OF  A  SOLMER  IN  FRANCE     .  Joyce  Kilmer 110 

THE  SMALL  TOWN  CELEBRATES   .      .  Karle  Wilson  Baker     .      .      .111 

CONTINUITY A.  E 114 

CHILDREN  AND  HOME 

I3ABY    PANTOMIME        .      .      .      .      .  Percy  MacKaye       .      .      .      .117 

A  MAN-CHILD'S  LULLABY       .      .      .  Brian  Hooker 117 

JUSTICE         Aline  Kilmer 118 

SMELLS — (JUNIOR) Christopher  Morley       .      .      .119 

THE  RAG  DOLLY'S  VALENTINE    .      .  Arthur   Guitei'man       .      .      .119 

THE  ANXIOUS  FARMER      ....  Burges  Johnson       .      .      .      .120 

THE  DEW-LIGHT Hilda   Conkling        ....    121 

THE    SHADOW   PEOPLE        ....  Francis    Ledwidge        .      .      .   122 

INCORRIGIBLE Surges  Johnson       ....    123 

DA  YOUNGA  'MERICAN       .      .      .      .  T.  A.  Daly 124 

LITTLE  PAN Witter   Bynner        ....    125 

RUFUS    PRAYS         L,  A.  G.  Strong       ....    126 

AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  ROADS  .      .  Padraic   Colum        ....   127 

THE  ANCIENT  BEAUTIFUL  THINGS    .  Fannie  Stearns  Davis       .      .   128 
You,  FOUR  WALLS,  WALL  NOT  IN 

MY  HEART Josephine   Preston  Peabody    .    132 

MY    DOG John  Kendrick   Bangs       .      .133 

IN    SERVICE W.  M.  Letts 134 

MY  SWEET  BROWN  GAL     ....  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar      .      .135 

THE  SUNKEN  GARDEN       ....  Walter  de  la  Mare      .      .      .136 

THE  GABDEN  BY  MOONLIGHT       .      .  Amy  Lowell 137 


xx  CONTENTS 

FRIENDSHIP  AND  LOVE 

To  MY  BROTHER Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 

A  MILE  WITH  ME Henry  van  Dyke 

MY    FRIEND Walter  Prichard  Eaton 

PEOPLE Frances  D.   Cornford 

SONG        Rupert    Brooke 

THE  LOOK Sara    Teasdale 

To  A  DISTANT  ONE Francis    Ledicidge 

"MARY,  HELPER  OF  HEARTBREAK"    .  Margaret  Widdemer 

GARDEN  OF  THE  ROSE       ....  Charles  Buxton  Going 

THE  LITTLE  GOLDEN  FOUNTAIN    .      .  Mary  MacMillan 

SONGS  CF  A  GIRL Mary   Carolyn   Davies 

PSALM  TO  MY  BELOVED     ....  Eunice   Tietjens 

THE  REFLECTION Christopher  Morley 

A   LYNMOUTH   WIDOW        ....  Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

PARTING Alice  Corbin  Henderson    . 

THE  PENALTY  OF  LOVE      ....  Sidney  Royse  Lysaght 

THOUGHT  AND  FANCY 

BARTER         Sara    Teasdale 

TIME,  You  OLD  GYPSY  MAN  .      .      .  Ralph   Hodgson 

SONNET         J.  C.  Squire       .... 

PROVINCETOWN         Marie  Louise  Hersey 

AMERICA Alfred   Kreymborg 

RECESSIONAL Rudyard  Kipling 

IF Rudyard  Kipling 

COURAGE John  Galsworthy 

PRAYER Louis    L'ntermeyer 

A   CREED Edwin  Markham 

THE  GREAT  LOVER Rupert   Brooke        .      .     . 

GIFTS V-rgaret  Widdcmer 

RICHARD  CORY Edwin   Arlington   Robinson 

A    FARMER   REMEMBERS    LINCOLN    .  Witter   Banner 

SUNSET Percy   MacKaye 

SILENCE Edgar  Lee  Masters 

THE  COWBOY'S  DREAM 

GENERAL  WILLIAM   BOOTH  ENTERS 

INTO  HEAVEN Vachel    Lindsay 

THE    DEVIL  William   Henry  Drummond 


CONTil 

i-NTS 

XXI 

PAGE 

THE  HOST  OF  THE  AIR      .... 

William   B.    Yeats        .      . 

.    185 

THE  FIDDLER  OF  DOONEY 

William    B.    Yeats 

.   187 

THE    FAUX    SEES    SNOW    FOR   THE 

FIRST  TIME    

Richard   Aldington 

.    188 

ETIQUETTE    

Arthur    Guiterman 

.    189 

THE  POTATOES'  DANCE      .... 

Vachel   Lindsay 

.    190 

DAGONET,  ARTHUR'S  FOOL 

M.  St.  Clare  Byrne      .      . 

.    192 

FORTY   SINGING    SEAMEN 

Alfred  Noyes      .... 

.    194 

WHEN  SHAKESPEARE  LAUGHED    . 

Christopher  Morley 

.    199 

SUGGESTED     BY     A     COVER     OF     A 

VOLUME  OF  KEATS'  POEMS 

Amy    LoiceJl        .... 

.    199 

THE  SHEPHERD  TO  THE  POET 

Agnes  Kcndrick   Gray 

.   201 

To  YOURSELF     

Witter    Bynner 

.   201 

205 

SUPPLEMENTARY  READING  LIST  .      . 

258 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

283 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 

271 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

.      -       -      . 

.  277 

THE  SEA 


SEA-FEVEE  * 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and  the  sky, 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by, 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the  white  sail's 

shaking, 
And  a  gray  mist  on  the  sea's  face  and  a  gray  dawn  breaking. 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the  running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied ; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds  flying, 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the  sea-gulls 
crying. 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  vagrant  gypsy  life, 
To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the  wind's  like 

a  whetted  knife; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  morry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow-rover, 
And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long  trick's  over. 

— John  Mase field 


*  From  Kalt-Water  Poems  and  Ballads,  by  John  Masefield.     Used  by 
special  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 

3 


MODERN  VERSE 


WILD  WEATHER  * 

The  sea  was  wild.     The  wind  was  proud. 

He  shook  my  curtains  like  a  shroud. 

He  was  a  wet  and  worthy  wind : 

His  hair  with   wild  sea-crystals  twined: 

His  cloak  with  wild  sea-grasses  green ; 

His  slanted  wings  all  gray  and  lean: 

And  strange  and  swift,  and  fierce  and  free 

He  cried,  "Come  out!  and  race  with  me!" 

I  snatched  my  mantle  wide  and  red, 
And  far  along  the  cliffs  I  fled. 

The  cliff-grass  bowed  itself  in  fear, 
The  gulls  forgot  what  path  to  steer; 
Below  the  cliffs  the  broad  waves  broke 
In  trampled  ranks  like  fighting  folk ; 
The  ships  with  grisly  sea-wrack  blind, 
Dead-drunken,  cursed  that  chasing  wind. 

My  lips  with  salt  were  wild  to  taste. 
I  leapt :  I  shouted  and  made  haste : 
Along  the  cliffs,  above  the  sea, 
With  mad  red  mantle  waving  free, 
And  hair  that  whipped  the  eyes  of  me. 

And  there  was  no  one  else  but  he, 
That  great  grim  wind  who  called  to  me. 

Oh,  we  ran  far !    Oh,  we  ran  free ! 

— Fannie  Stearns  Davis 

*  From  Crack  o'  Dawn,  by  Fannie  Stearns  Davis.     Used  by  special 
permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


THE  SEA 

HIGH-TIDE 

I  edged  back  against  the  night. 

The  sea  growled  assault  on  the  wave-bitten  shore, 

And  the  breakers, 

Like  young  and  impatient  hounds, 

Sprang,  with  rough  joy,  on  the  shrinking  sand, 

Sprang — but  were  drawn  back  slowly, 

With  a  long,  relentless  pull, 

Whimpering,  into  the  dark. 

Then  I  saw  who  held  them  captive; 

And  I  saw  how  they  were  bound 

With  a  broad  and  quivering  leash  of  light, 

Held  by  the  moon, 

As,  calm  and  unsmiling, 

She  walked  the  deep  fields  of  the  sky. 

— Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 


SAILOR  TOWN  * 

Along  the  wharves  in  sailor  town  a  singing  whisper  goes 
Of  the  wind  among  the  anchored  ships,  the  wind  that  blows* 
Off  a  broad  brimming  water,  where  the  summer  day  has  died 
Like  a  wounded  whale  a-sounding  in  the  sunset  tide. 

There's  a  big  China  liner,  gleaming  like  a  gull, 

And  her  lit  ports  flashing;  there's  the  long  gaunt  hull 


*  From  Sailor  Toicn,  by   C.   Fox   Smith,   copyright   1919,   George   H 
Doran  Company,  publishers. 


6  MODERN  VERSE 

Of  a  Blue  Funnel  freighter  with  her  derricks  dark  and  still; 
And  a  tall  barque  loading  at  the  lumber  mill. 

And  in  the  shops  of  sailor  town  is  every  kind  of  thing 
That  the  sailormen  buy  there,  or  the  ships'  crews  bring: 
Shackles  for  a  sea-chest  and  pink  cockatoos, 
Fifty-cent  alarum  clocks  and  dead  men's  shoes. 

You  can  hear  the  gulls  crying,  and  the  cheerful  noise 

Of  a  concertina  going,  and  a  singer's  voice — 

And  the  wind's  song  and  the  tide's  song,  crooning  soft  and 

low 
Rum  old  tunes  in  sailor  town  that  seamen  know. 

I  dreamed  a  dream  in  sailor  town,  a  foolish  dream  and  vain. 
Of  ships  and  men  departed,  of  old  days  come  again — 
And  an  old  song  in  sailor  town,  an  old  song  to  sing 
When  shipmate  meets  with  shipmate  in  the  evening. 

— Cicely  Fox  Smith. 


THE  SHIP  OF  RIO 

There  was  a  ship  of  Rio 

Sailed  out  into  the  blue, 
And  nine  and  ninety  monkeys 

Were  all  her  jovial  crew. 
From  bos'un  to  the  cabin  boy, 

From  quarter  to  caboose, 
There  weren't  a  stitch  of  calico 

To  breech  'em — tight  or  loose : 
From  spar  to  deck,  from  deck  to  keel, 

From  barnacle  to  shroud, 


THE  SEA 

There  weren't  one  pair  of  reach-me-downs 

To  all  that  jabbering  crowd. 
But  wasn't  it  a  gladsome  sight, 

When  roared  the  deep-sea  gales, 
To  see  them  reef  her  fore  and  aft, 

A-swinging  by  their  tails ! 
Oh,  wasn  't  it  a  gladsome  sight, 

When  glassy  calm  did  come, 
To  see  them  squatting  tailor-wise 

Around  a  keg  of  rum  ! 
Oh,  wasn't  it  a  gladsome  sight, 

When  in  she  sailed  to  land, 
To  see  them  all  a-scampering  skip 

For  nuts  across  the  sand ! 

Walter  de  la  Mare 


First  Voice 

With  a  long  heavy  heave,  my  very  famous  men.  .  .  „ 

(Chorus.     Bring  home!  heave  and  rally!) 
Second  Voice 

And  why  do  you,  lad,  look  so  pale?    Is  it  for  love,  or 

lack  of  ale? 
First  Voice 

All  hands  bear  a  hand  that  have  a  hand  to  len' — 
And  there  never  was  a  better  haul  than  you  gave  then.  . .  . 
(Chorus.    Bring  home!) 

*  Taken  by  permission  from  Poems,  with  Fables  In  Prose,  by  Herbert 
Trench,  published  by  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.,  New  York. 


8  MODERN  VERSE 

First  Voice 

Heave  hearty,  my  very  famous  men.  .  .  . 
(Bring  home!  heave  and  rally!) 

Second  Voice 

Curl  and  scud,   rack  and  squall — sea  clouds  you  shall 
know  them  all.  .  .  . 

First  Voice 

For  we're  bound  for  Valparaiso  and  round  the  Horn  again 
From  Monte  Desolado  to  the  parish  of  Big  Ben!  .  .  . 
(Bring  home!) 

First  Voice 

Heave  hearty,  my  very  famous  men.  .  .  . 
(Bring  home!  heave  and  rally!) 

Second  Voice 

Bold  through  all  or  scuppers  under,  when  shall  we  be 
back,  I  wonder? 

First  Voice 

From  the   green  and   chancy  water  we  shall  all   come 

back  again 

To  the   Lizard    and   the   ladies — but   who   can   say   for 
when?  .  .  . 

(Bring  home!) 

First  Voice 

Heave  and  she's  a-trip,  my  very  famous  men.  .  .  „ 
(Bring  home!  heave  and  rally!) 


THE  SEA  9 

Second  Voice 

When  your  fair  lass  says  farewell  to  you  a  fair  wind  1 

will  sell  to  you.  .  .  . 
First  Voice 

You  may  sell  your  soul's  salvation,  but  I'll  bet  you  two- 
pound-ten 

She's  a-tripping  on  the  ribs  of  the  devil  in  his  den.  .  .  . 
(Bring  home!) 

First  Voice 

Heave  and  she's  a-peak,  my  very  famous  men.  .  .  . 
(Bring  home!  heave  and  rally!) 

Second  Voice 

You  shall  tread,  for  one  eruzado,  Fiddler's  Green  in  El 
Dorado.  .  .  . 

First  Voice 

Where  I've  seen  less  lucky  fellows  pay  for  liquor  with 

doubloons 

And   for    'baccy  with   ozellas,   gold  mohurs,   and   duca- 
toons!  .  .  . 

(Bring  home!) 

First  Voice 

Heave  and  a-weigh,  my  very  famous  men.  .  .  . 
(Bring  home!  heave  and  rally!) 

Second  Voice 

And  drop  her  next  in  heat  or  cold,  the  flukes  of  England 
they  shall  hold !  .  .  . 


10  MODERN  VERSE 

First  Voice 

Ring  and  shank,  stock  and  fluke,  she's  coming  into  ken — • 
Give  a  long  and  heavy  heave,  she 's  a-coming  into  ken.  .  .  . 

(Bring  home!) 
First  Voice 

Heave  in  sight,  my  very  famous  men.  .  .  . 
(Bring  home!  heave  and  rally!) 
Second  Voice 

With  her  shells  and  tangle  dripping  she's  a  beauty  we 

are  shipping.  .  .  . 
First  Voice 

And  she  likes  a  bed  in  harbor  like  a  decent  citizen, 
But  her  fancy  for  a  hammock  on  the  deep  sea  comes 
again.  .  .  . 

(Bring  home!) 
First  Voice 

Heave  and  she 's  a-wash,  my  very  famous  men.  .  .  . 

(Bring  home!  heave  and  rally!) 
Second  Voice 

0  never  stop  to  write  the  news  that  we  are  off  upon  a 

cruise.  .  .  . 
First  Voice 

For  the  Gulf  of  Calif orny's  got  a  roller  now  and  then 
But  it's  better  to  be  sailing  than  a-sucking  of  a  pen.  .  .  . 
(Bring  home!) 

— Herbert  Trench 


THE  SEA  11 

IRRADIATIONS 
III 

In  the  gray  skirts  of  the  fog  seamews  skirl  desolately, 

And  flick  like  bits  of  paper  propelled  by  a  wind 

About  the  flabby  sails  of  a  departing  ship 

Crawling  slowly  down  the  low  reaches 

Of  the  river. 

About  the  keel  there  is  a  bubbling  and  gurgling 

Of  grumpy  water ; 

And  as  the  prow  noses  out  a  way  for  itself, 

It  seems  to  weave  a  dream  of  bubbles  and  flashing  foam, 

A  dream  of  strange  islands  whereto  it  is  bound: 

Pearl  islands  drenched  with  the  dawn. 

The  palms  flash  under  the  immense  dark  sky, 

Down  which  the  sun  dives  to  embrace  the  earth: 

Drums  boom  and  conches  bray, 

And  with  a  crash  of  crimson  cymbals 

Suddenly  appears  above  the  polished  backs  of  slaves 

A  king  in  a  breastplate  of  gold 

Gigantic 

Amid  tossed  roses  and  swaying  dancers 

That  melt  into  pale  undulations  and  muffled  echoes 

'Mid  the  bubbling  of  the  muddy  water, 

And  the  swirling  of  the  seamews  above  the  sullen  river. 

— John  Gould  Fletcher 


12  MODERN  VERSE 


CARGOES  * 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 
Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory 

And  apes  and  peacocks, 
Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet    white  wine. 

Stately  Spanish  galleon  coming  from  the  Isthmus, 
Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm-green  shores 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,   amethysts, 
Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

Dirty  British  coaster  with  a  salt-caked  smoke  stack, 
Butting  through  the  channel  in  the  mad  March  days 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 

Road  rails,  pig  lead, 
Firewood,  ironware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 

— John  Masefield 


THE  OLD  SHIPS 

I  have  seen  old  ships  sail  like  swans  asleep 
Beyond  the  village  which  men  still  call  Tyre, 
With  leaden  age  o'ercargoed,  dipping  deep 
For  Famagusta  and  the  hidden  sun 
That  rings  black  Cyprus  with  a  lake  of  fire; 

*  From  Salt- Water  Poems  and  Ballads,  by  John  Masefield.     Used  by 
special  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


THE  SEA  13 

And  all  those  ships  were  certainly  so  old 
Who  knows  how  oft  with  squat  and  noisy  gun, 
Questing  brown  slaves  or  Syrian  oranges, 
The  pirate  Genoese 
Hell-raked  them  till  they  rolled 
Blood,  water,  fruit  and  corpses  up  the  hold. 
But  now  through  friendly  seas  they  softly  run, 
Painted  the  mid-sea  blue  or  shore-sea  green, 
Still  patterned  with  the  vine  and  grapes  in  gold. 

But  I  have  seen, 

Pointing  her  shapely  shadows  from  the  dawn, 

An  image  tumbled  on  a  rose-swept  bay, 

A  drowsy  ship  of  some  yet  older  day; 

And,  wonder's  breath  indrawn, 

Thought  I — who  knows — who  knows — but  in  that  same 

(Fished  up  beyond  ^Ea?a,  patched  up  new 
— Stern  painted  brighter  blue — ) 
That  talkative,  bald-headed  seaman  came 
(Twelve  patient  comrades  sweating  at  the  oar) 
From  Troy's  doom-crimson  shore, 
And  with  great  lies  about  his  wooden  horse 
Set  the  crew  laughing,  and  forgot  his  course. 

It  was  so  old  a  ship — who  knows,  who  knows? 
— And  yet  so  beautiful,  I  watched  in  vain 
To  see  the  mast  burst  open  with  a  rose, 
A.nd  the  whole  deck  put  on  its  leaves  again. 

— James  Elroy  Flecker 


14  MODERN  VERSE 


SING  A  SONG  0'  SHIPWRECK* 

He  lolled  on  a  bollard,  a  sun-burned  son  of  the  sea, 
With  ear-rings  of  brass  and  a  jumper  of  dungaree, 
"  'N'  many  a  queer  lash-up  have  I  seen,"  says  he. 

"But  the  toughest  hooray  o'  the  racket,"  he  says,  "I'll  be 

sworn, 

'N'  the  roughest  traverse  I  worked  since  the  day  I  was  born, 
Was  a  packet  o'  Sailor's  Delight  as  I  scoffed  in  the  seas  o'  the 

Horn. 

"All  day  long  in  the  calm  she  had  rolled  to  the  swell. 
Rolling  through  fifty  degrees  till  she  clattered  her  bell ; 
'N'  then  came  snow,  'n'  a  squall,  'n'  a  wind  was  colder  'n 
hell. 

"It  blew  like  the  Bull  of  Barney,  a  beast  of  a  breeze, 
'N'  over  the  rail  come  the  cold  green  lollopin"  seas, 
'N'  she  went  ashore  at  the  dawn  on  the  Ramirez. 

"She  was  settlin'  down  by  the  stern  when  I  got  to  the  deck. 

Her  waist  was  a  smother  o '  sea  as  was  up  to  your  neck, 

'N'  her  masts  were  gone,  'n'  her  rails,  'n'  she  was  a  wreck. 

"We  rigged  up  a  tackle,  a  purchase,  a  sort  of  a  shift, 
To  hoist  the  boats  off  o'  the  deck-house  and  get  them  adrift, 
When  her  stern  gives  a  sickenin '  settle,  her  bows  give  a  lift, 

"  'N '  comes  a  crash  of  green  water  as  sets  me  afloat 
With  freezing  fingers  clutching  the  keel  of  a  boat — 
The  bottom-up  whaler — 'n'  that  was  the  juice  of  a  note. 

*  From  Salt-Water  Poems  and  Ballads,  by  John  Masefield.     Used  bj 
special  permission  of  The  Macmillan   Company,  publishers. 


THE  SEA  15 

"Well,  I  clambers  acrost  o'  the  keel  'n'  I  gets  me  secured, 
When  I  sees  a  face  in  the  white  o'  the  smother  to  looard, 
So  I  gives  'im  a  'and,  'n'  be  shot  if  it  wasn't  the  stooard! 

"So  he  climbs  up  forrard  o'  me,  'n'  'thanky,'  a'  says, 

'N'  we  sits  'n'  shivers  'n'  freeze  to  the  bone  wi'  the  sprays, 

;N'  I  sings  'Abel  Brown,'  'n'  the  stooard  he  prays. 

"Wi'  never  a  dollop  to  sup  nor  a  morsel  to  bite, 

The  lips  of  us  blue  with  the  cold  'n'  the  heads  of  us  light, 

Adrift  in  a  Cape  Horn  sea  for  a  day  'n'  a  night. 

•'  'N'  then  the  stooard  goes  dotty  'n'  puts  a  tune  to  his  lip 
'NJ  moans  about  Love  like  a  dern  old  hen  wi'  the  pip — 
(I   sets  no   store  upon  stooards — they   ain't   no   use    on   a 
ship). 

"  'N'  'mother,'  the  looney  cackles,  'come  'n'  put  Willy  to  bed !' 
So  I  says  'Dry  up,  or  I'll  fetch  you  a  crack  o'  the  head'; 
'The  kettle's   a-bilin','  he  answers,  "n'  I'll  go  butter  the 
bread. ' 

"  'N'  he  falls  to  singin'  some  slush  about  clinkin'  a  can, 

'N'  at  last  he  dies,  so  he  does,  'n'  I  tells  you,  Jan, 

I  was  glad  when  he  did,  for  he  weren't  no  fun  for  a  man. 

"So  he  falls  forrard,  he  does,  'n'  he  closes  his  eye, 
'N'  quiet  he  lays  'n'  quiet  I  leaves  him  lie, 
'N'  I  was  alone  with  his  corp,  'n'  the  cold  green  sea  and  the 
sky. 

"  'N'  then  I  dithers,  I  guess,  for  the  next  as  I  knew 
Was  the  voice  of  a  mate  as  was  sayin'  to  one  of  the  crew, 
'  Easy,  my  son,  wi'  the  brandy,  be  shot  if  he  ain't  comin'-to !.'  ' 

— John  Masefield 


16  MODERN  VERSE 


PIRATE  TREASURE 

A  lady  loved  a  swaggering  rover ; 
The  seven  salt  seas  he  voyaged  over, 
Bragged  of  a  hoard  none  could  discover, 
Hey !  Jolly  Roger,  0. 

She  bloomed  in  a  mansion  dull  and  stately, 
And  as  to  Meeting  she  walked  sedately, 
From  the  tail  of  her  eye  she  liked  him  greatly. 
Hey !  Jolly  Roger,  0. 

Rings  in  his  ears  and  a  red  sash  wore  he, 
He  sang  her  a  song  and  he  told  her  a  story : 
' '  I  '11  make  ye  Queen  of  the  Ocean ! ' '  swore  he. 
Hey !  Jolly  Roger,  0. 

She  crept  from  bed  by  her  sleeping  sister ; 
By  the  old  gray  mill  he  met  and  kissed  her. 
Blue  day  dawned  before  they  missed  her. 
Hey !  Jolly  Roger,  0. 

And  while  they  prayed  her  out  of  Meeting, 
Her  wild  little  heart  with  bliss  was  beating, 
As  seaward  went  the  lugger  fleeting. 
Hey !  Jolly  Roger,  0. 

Choose  in  haste  and  repent  at  leisure; 
A  buccaneer  life  is  not  all  pleasure. 
He  set  her  ashore  with  a  little  treasure. 
Hey !  Jolly  Roger,  0. 


THE  SEA  17 


Oft'  he  sailed  where  waves  were  dashing, 
Knives  were  gleaming,  cutlasses  clashing, 
And  a  ship  on  jagged  rocks  went  crashing. 
Hey !  Jolly  Roger,  0. 

Over  his  bones  the  tides  are  sweeping; 
The  only  trace  of  the  rover  sleeping 
Is  what  he  left  in  the  lady 's  keeping. 
Hey !  Jolly  Roger,  0. 

Two  hundred  years  is  his  name  unspoken, 

The  secret  of  his  hoard  unbroken ; 

But  a  black-browed  race  wears  the  pirate's 

token. 
Hey !  Jolly  Roger,  0. 

Sea-blue  eyes  that  gleam  and  glisten, 
Lips  that  sing — and  you  like  to  listen — 
A  swaggering  song.     It  might  be  this  one: 
"Hey!  Jolly  Roger,  0." 

— Abbie  Farwell  Brown 


THE  CITY 


FOG 

The  fog  comes 
on  little  cat  feet. 

It  sits  looking 
over  harbor  and  city 
on  silent  haunches 
and  then  moves  on. 


BEOOKLYN  BRIDGE  AT  DAWN 

Out  of  the  cleansing  night  of  stars  and  tides, 
Building  itself  anew  in  the  slow  dawn, 
The  long  sea-city  rises:  night  is  gone, 

Day  is  not  yet ;  still  merciful,  she  hides 

Her  summoning  brow,  and  still  the  night-car  glides 
Empty  of  faces;  the  night-watchmen  yawn 
One  to  the  other,  and  shiver  and  pass  on, 

Nor  yet  a  soul  over  the  great  bridge  rides. 

Frail  as  a  gossamer,  a  thing  of  air, 

A  bow  of  shadow  o'er  the  river  flung, 
Its  sleepy  masts  and  lonely  lapping  flood; 

Who,  seeing  thus  the  bridge  a-slumber  there, 

Would  dream  such  softness,  like  a  picture  hung, 
Is  wrought  of  human  thunder,  iron  and  blood  ? 

— Richard  Le  Gallienne 


21 


22  MODERN  VERSE 

EEN  NAPOLI 

Here  een  Noo  Yorka,  where  am  I 
Seence  I  am  landa  las'  July, 
All  gray  an'  ogly  ees  da  sky, 

An'  cold  as  eet  can  be. 
But  steell  so  long  I  maka  mon'. 
So  long  ees  worka  to  be  done, 
I  can  forgat  how  shines  da  sun 
Een  Napoli. 

But  oh,  w  'en  pass  da  boy  dat  sal 
Da  violets,  an'  I  can  smal 
How  sweet  dey  are,  I  can  not  tal 

How  seeck  my  heart  ees  be. 
I  no  can  work,  how  mooch  I  try, 
But  only  seet  an'  wondra  why 
I  could  not  justa  leeve  an'  die 
Een  Napoli. 

— T.  A.  Daly 


CITY  EOOFS  * 

(From  the  Metropolitan  Tower.) 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  what  do  you  cover? 

Sad  folk,  bad  folk,  and  many  a  glowing  lover ; 
Wise  people,  simple  people,  children  of  despair — 
Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  hiding  pain  and  care. 

*  From  Today  and  Tomorrow,  by  Charles  Hanson  Towne,  copyright 
1916,  George  H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 


THE  CITY  23 

Roof-tops,  roof -tops,  0  what  sin  you're  knowing, 

While  above  you  in  the  sky  the  white  clouds  are  blowing ; 
While  beneath  you,  agony  and  dolor  and  grim  strife 
Fight  the  olden  battle,  the  olden  war  of  Life. 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  cover  up  their  shame — 

Wretched  souls,  prison  souls  too  piteous  to  name; 

Man  himself  hath  built  you  all  to  hide  away  the  stars — 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  you  hide  ten  million  scars. 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  well  I  know  you  cover 

Many  solemn  tragedies,  and  many  a  lonely  lover ; 

But  ah !  you  hide  the  good  that  lives  in  the  throbbing 

city — 
Patient  wives,  and  tenderness,  forgiveness,  faith,  and  pity. 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  this  is  what  I  wonder: 

You  are  thick  as  poisonous  plants,  thick  the  people  under ; 
Yet  roofless,  and  homeless,  and  shelterless  they  roam, 
The  driftwood  of  the  town  who  have  no  roof-top,  and  no 
home! 

— Charles  Hanson  Towne 


BROADWAY  * 

How  like  the  stars  are  these  white,  nameless  faces ! 

These  far  innumerable  burning  coals ! 
This  pale  procession  out  of  stellar  spaces, 

This  Milky  Way  of  souls ! 

*  From  Poems  and  Ballads,  by  Hermann  Hagedorn.     Used  by  special 
permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


24  MODERN  VERSE 

Each  in  its  own  bright  nebula?  enfurled, 
Each  face,  dear  God,  a  world ! 

I  fling  my  gaze  out  through  the  silent  night — 
In  those  far  stars,  what  gardens,  what  high  halls, 

Has  mortal  yearning  built  for  its  delight, 
What  chasms  and  what  walls  ? 

What  quiet  mansions  where  a  soul  may  dwell? 

What  Heaven  and  what  Hell? 

— Hermann  Hagedorvt 


THE  PEDDLER* 

I  peddles  pencils  on  Broadway. 

I  know  it  ain't  a  great  career. 
It's  dull  an'  footless — so  folks  say — 

And  yet  I've  done  it  twenty  year, 
Held  down  my  same  old  corner  here 

An'  never  missed  a  day. 

I  peddles,  an'  I  watch  the  crowd. 

I  knows  'em — all  they  say  an'  do — 
As  if  they  shouted  it  out  loud. 

I  look  'em  through  an'  through  an'  through! 
By  crabs !  they'd  kill  me  if  they  knew — 

They  are  so  fine  an'  proud. 

I  knows  'em!  Oh,  it's  in  their  eyes, 
It 's  in  their  walk,  it 's  in  their  lips ! 

They  tries  to  bluff  it — but  I  'm  wise ! 
An'  they're  just  children  when  you  strips 

*  From  Poems  and  Ballads,  by  Hermann  Hagedorn.     Used  by  special 
permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


THE  CITY  25 

The  smirk  off ;  an '  the  clerks,  the  chips, 
Stands  clean  of  all  the  lies. 

I've  watched  so  long,  I  scarcely  see 
The  clo'es it's  just  the  faces  now. 

Somehow  I  knows  their  misery, 

An '  wonders —  when  ?     An '  where  ?     An '  how  ? 

Elbow  an'  shoulder — on  they  plow — 
An'  yet  somehow  they  speaks  to  me. 

I'm  like  the  priest — an'  all  day  long 

They  tells  me  what  they  've  thought  an '  done, 

An'  some  is  flabby,  some  is  strong, 
An'  some  of  'em  was  dead  an'  gone 

Before  they  ever  saw  the  sun.  .  .  . 
I  know  where  some  of  'em  belong. 

I  peddles  pencils.     Christ!     An'  they? 

They  does  the  thing's  that  seems  worth  while. 
I  watch  'em  growin'  old  an'  gray, 

An'  queer  about  the  eyes,  an'  smile 
To  see  'em  when  they  've  made  their  pile, 

A-totterin'  up  Broadway. 

— Hermann  Hagedorn 


ROSES  IN  THE  SUBWAY  * 

A  wan-cheeked  girl  with  faded  eyes 
Came  stumbling  down  the  crowded  car, 

*  From    Poems,    by    Dana    Burnet.     Copyright    1915,    by    Harper    & 
Brothers. 


26  MODERN  VERSE 

Clutching  her  burden  to  her  breast 
As  though  she  held  a  star. 

Roses,  I  swear  it !  Red  and  sweet 

And  struggling  from  her  pinched  white  hands, 

Roses  .  .  .  like  captured  hostages 
From  far  and  fairy  lands! 

The  thunder  of  the  rushing  train 
Was  like  a  hush.  .  .  The  flower  scent 

Breathed  faintly  on  the  stale,  whirled  air 
Like  some  dim  sacrament — 

I  saw  a  garden  stretching  out 

And  morning  on  it  like  a  crown — 
And  o'er  a  bed  of  crimson  bloom 

My  mother  .  .  .  stooping  down. 

— Dana  Burnet 


THE  FACTORIES 

I  have  shut  my  little  sister  in  from  life  and  light 

(For  a  roso,  for  a  ribbon,  for  a  wreath  across  my  hair), 
I  have  made  her  restless  feet  still  until  the  night, 

Locked  from  sweets  of  summer  and  from  wild  spring  air ; 
I  who  ranged  in  the  meadowlands,  free  from  sun  to  sun, 

Free  to  sing  and  pull  the  buds  and  watch  the  far  wings  fly, 
I  have  bound  my  sister  till  her  playing-time  was  done — 

Oh,  my  little  sister,  was  it  I  ?    Was  it  I  ? 


THE  CITY  27 

I  have  robbed  my  sister  of  her  day  of  maidenhood 

(For  a  robe,  for  a  feather,  for  a  trinket's  restless  spark), 
Shut  from  Love  till  dusk  shall  fall,  how  shall  she  know  good, 

How  shall  she  go  scatheless  through  the  sin-lit  dark? 
I  who  could  be  innocent,  I  who  could  be  gay, 

I  who  could  have  love  and  mirth  before  the  light  went  by, 
I  have  put  my  sister  in  her  mating-time  away — 

Sister,  my  young  sister,  was  it  I?     Was  it  I? 

I  have  robbed  my  sister  of  the  lips  against  her  breast, 

(For  a  coin,  for  th^.  weaving  of  my  children's  lace  and  lawn), 
Feet  that  pace  beside  the  loom,  hands  that  cannot  rest — 

How  can  she  know  motherhood,  whose  strength  is  gone? 
I  who  took  no  heed  of  her,  starved  and  labor-worn, 

I,  against  whose  placid  heart  my  sleepy  gold-heads  lie, 
Round  my  path  they  cry  to  me,  little  souls  unborn — 

God  of  Life!    Creator!    It  was  I!    It  was  I! 

— Margaret  Widdemer 


PRAYERS  OF  STEEL 

Lay  me  on  an  anvil,  0  God. 

Beat  me  and  hammer  me  into  a  crowbar. 

Let  me  pry  loose  old  walls. 

Let  me  lift  and  loosen  old  foundations. 

Lay  me  on  an  anvil,  0  God. 
Beat  me  and  hammer  me  into  a  steel  spike. 
Drive  me  into  the  girders  that  hold  a  skyscraper  together. 
Take  red-hot  rivets  and  fasten  me  into  the  central  girders. 
Let  me  be  the  great  nail  holding  a  skyscraper  through  blue 
nights  into  white  stars. 

— Carl  Sandburg 


28  MODERN  VERSE 

ELLIS  PARK 

Little  park  that  I  pass  through, 

I  carry  off  a  piece  of  you 

Every  morning  hurrying  down 

To  my  work-day  in  the  town ; 

Carry  you  for  country  there 

To  make  the  city  ways  more  fair. 

I  take  your  trees, 

And  your  breeze,  f 

Your  greenness, 

Your  cleanness, 

Some  of  your  shade,  some  of  your  sky, 

Some  of  your  calm  as  I  go  by; 

Your  flowers  to  trim 

The  pavements  grim ; 

Your  space  for  room  in  the  jostled  street 

And  grass  for  carpet  to  my  feet. 

Your  fountains  take  and  sweet  bird  calls 

To  sing  me  from  my  office  walls. 

All  that  I  can  see 

I  carry  off  with  me. 

But  you  never  miss  my  theft, 

So  much  treasure  you  have  left 

As  I  find  you,  fresh  at  morning, 

So  I  find  you,  home  returning — 

Nothing  lacking  from  your  grace. 

All  your  riches  wait  in  place 

For  me  to  borrow 

On  the  morrow. 

Do  you  hear  this  praise  of  you, 
Little  park  that  I  pass  through  ? 

• — Helen  Hoyt 


THE  CITY 


THE  PARK  * 

All  day  the  children  play  along  the  walks, 
A  robin  sings  high  in  a  brave,  green  tree, 

The  city  lifts  gray  temples  at  its  marge, 
But  still  it  keeps  the  heart  of  Arcady. 

Still  blows  a  flower  in  the  waving  grass, 

Lifting  a  face  of  beauty  to  the  sun; 
Still  bursts  the  bough  in  joyous  burgeoning— 

Still  comes  a  lover  when  the  day  is  done. 

Here  the  white  moon,  with  magic  in  her  train, 

Stoops  from  the  starry  lanes  of  paradise, 
And,  with  her  ancient  witchery  of  dreams, 
Lays  some  new  hope  upon  a  poet 's  eyes. 

See,  on  that  bench  beneath  the  drooping  bough, 
Did  not  yon  grief -bowed  figure  lift  its  face? 

Look  how  the  moonlight  finds  him  through  the  leaves, 
Touching  his  brow  with  sudden  crowns  of  grace! 

0  little  park,  0  little  land  of  hope, 

Snatched  from  the  world  and  held  for  God  and  me, 
Still  through  thy  walks  the  wistful  cities  go, 

Searching  the  dream  that  yet  might  set  them  free ! 

— Dana  Burnet 


*  From   Poems,   by   Dana    Burnet.     Copyright,    1915,   by   Harper   & 
Brothers. 


30  MODERN  VERSE 


AT  TWILIGHT* 

You  are  a  painter — listen — 

I  '11  paint  you  a  picture  too ! 
Of  the  long  white  lights  that  glisten 

Through  Michigan  Avenue ; 
With  the  red  lights  down  the  middle 

Where  the  street  shines  mirror-wet, 
While  the  rain-strung  sky  is  a  fiddle 

For  the  wind  to  feel  and  fret. 
Look!  far  in  the  east  great  spaces 

Meet  out  on  the  level  lake. 
Where  the  lit  ships  veil  their  faces 

And  glide  like  ghosts  at  a  wake; 
And  up  in  the  air,  high  over 

The  rain-shot  shimmer  of  light, 
The  huge  sky-scrapers  hover 

And  shake  out  their  stars  at  the  night. 
Oh,  the  city  trails  gold  tassels 

From  the  skirts  of  her  purple  gown, 
And  lifts  up  her  commerce  castles 

Like  a  jewel-studded  crown. 
See,  proudly  she  moves  on,  singing 

Up  the  storm-dimmed  track  of  time—* 
Road  dark  and  dire, 

Where  each  little  light 
Is  a  soul  afire 


t  From  You  and  J,  by  Harriet  Monroe.     Used  by  special  permission 
The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


THE  CITY  31 

Against  the  night! 
Oh,  grandly  she  marches,  flinging 
Her  gifts  at  our  feet,  and  singing ! — 

Have  I  chalked  out  a  sketch  in  my  rhyme  ? 

— Harriet  Monroe 


IN  LADY  STREET 

All  day  long  the  traffic  goes 

In  Lady  Street  by  dingy  rows 

Of  sloven  houses,  tattered  shops — 

Fried  fish,  old  clothes  and  fortune-tellers — 

Tall  trams  on  silver-shining  rails, 

With  grinding  wheels  and  swaying  tops, 

And  lorries  with  their  corded  bales, 

And  screeching  cars.     "Buy,  buy!"  the  sellers 

Of  rags  and  bones  and  sickening  meat 

Cry  all  day  long  in  Lady  Street. 

And  when  the  sunshine  has  its  way 
In  Lady  Street,  then  all  the  grey 
Dull  desolation  grows  in  state 
More  dull  and  grey  and  desolate, 
And  the  sun  is  a  shamefast  thing, 
A  lord  not  comely-housed,  a  god 
Seeing  what  gods  must  blush  to  see, 
A  song  where  it  is  ill  to  sing, 
And  each  gold  ray  despiteously 
Lies  like  a  gold  ironic  rod. 


32  MODERN  VERSE 

Yet  one  grey  man  in  Lady  Street 
Looks  for  the  sun.     He  never  bent 
Life  to  his  will,  his  traveling  feet 
Have  scaled  no  cloudy  continent, 
Nor  has  the  sickle-hand  been  strong. 
He  lives  in  Lady  Street ;  a  bed, 
Four  cobwebbed  walls. 

But  all  day  long 
A  time  is  singing  in  his  head 
Of  youth  in  Gloucester  lanes.     He  hears 
The  wind  among  the  barley-blades, 
The  tapping  of  the  woodpeckers 
On  the  smooth  beeches,  thistle-spades 
Slicing  the  sinewy  roots ;  he  sees 
The  hooded  filberts  in  the  copse 
Beyond  the  loaded  orchard  trees, 
The  netted  avenues  of  hops; 
He  smells  the  honeysuckle  thrown 
Along  the  hedge.     He  lives  alone, 
Alone — yet  not  alone,  for  sweet 
Are  Gloucester  lanes  in  Lady  Street. 

Ay,  Gloucester  lanes.     For  down  below 

The  cobwebbed  room  this  gray  man  plies 

A  trade,  a  coloured  trade.     A  show 

Of  many-coloured  merchandise 

Is  in  his  shop.     Brown  filberts  there, 

And  apples  red  with  Gloucester  air, 

And  cauliflowers  he  keeps,  and  round 

Smooth  marrows  grown  on  Gloucester  ground, 

Fat  cabbages  and  yellow  plums, 

And  gaudy  brave  chrysanthemums. 

And  times  a  glossy  pheasant  lies 


THE  CITY  33 

Among  his  store,  not  Tyrian  dyes 
More  rich  than  are  the  neck-feathers  j 
And  times  a  prize  of  violets, 
Or  dewy  mushrooms  satin-skinned, 
And  times  an  unfamiliar  wind 
Robbed  of  its  woodland  favour  stirs 
Gay  daffodils  this  grey  man  sets 
Among  his  treasure. 

All  day  long 

In  Lady  Street  the  traffic  goes 
By  dingy  houses,  desolate  rows 
Of  shops  that  stare  like  hopeless  eyes. 
Day  long  the  sellers  cry  their  cries, 
The  fortune-tellers  tell  no  wrong 
Of  lives  that  know  not  any  right, 
And  drift,  that  has  not  even  the  will 
To  drift,  toils  through  the  day  until 
The  wage  of  sleep  is  won  at  night. 
But  this  grey  man  heeds  not  at  all 
The  hell  of  Lady  Street.     His  stall 
Of  many-coloured  merchandise 
He  makes  a  shining  paradise, 
As  all  day  long  chrysanthemums 
He  sells,  and  red  and  yellow  plums 
And  cauliflowers.     In  that  one  spot 
Of  Lady  Street  the  sun  is  not 
Ashamed  to  shine  and  send  a  rare 
Shower  of  colour  through  the  air; 
The  grey  man  says  the  sun  is  sweet 
On  Gloucester  lanes  in  Lady  Street. 

— John  Drinkuxiter 


34  MODERN  VERSE 

THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

There's  a  barrel-organ  caroling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
And  the  music 's  not  immortal ;  but  the  world  has  made  it  sweet 

And  fulfilled  it  with  the  sunset  glow; 
And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City  and  the  pain 

That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large  eternal  light ; 
And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play  again 

In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 

And  now  it's  marching  onward  through  the  realms  of  old 
romance, 

And   trolling  out   a   fond   familiar  tune, 
And  now  it 's  roaring  cannon  down  to  fight  the  King  of  France, 

And  now  it's  prattling  softly  to  the  moon, 
And  all  around  the  organ  there's  a  sea  without  a  shore 

Of  human  joys  and  wonders  and  regrets; 
To  remember  and  to  recompense  the  music  evermore 

For  what  the  cold  machinery  forgets.  .  .  . 

Yes;  as  the  music  changes, 

Like  a  prismatic  glass, 
It  takes  the  light  and  ranges 

Through  all  the  moods  that  pass; 
Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets, 
And  gives  the  world  a  glimpse  of  all 

The  colours  it  forgets. 

And  there  La  Traviata  sighs 
Another  sadder  song; 

*  Reprinted  with  permission  from  Collected  Poems,  by  Alfred  Noyes, 
Copyright,   1913,   Frederick  A.   Stokes  Company. 


THE  CITY  36 

And  there  II  Trovatore  cries 

A  tale  of  deeper  wrong; 
And  bolder  knights  to  battle  go 

With  sword  and  shield  and  lance, 
Than   ever   here   on    earth    below 

Have  whirled  into — a  dance! — 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time; 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London!) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's 
wonderland ; 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London!) 

The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  and  soft  perfume  and  sweet 

perfume, 
The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom    (and  oh,  so  near  to 

London!) 
And  there  they  say,  when  dawn  is  high  and  all  the  world's 

a  blaze  of  sky 

The  cuckoo,  though  he's  very  shy,  will  sing  a  song  for 
London. 

The  Dorian  nightingale  is  rare  and  yet  they  say  you'll  hear 

him  there 

At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh,  so  near  to  London!) 

The  linnet  and  the  throstle,  too,  and  after  dark  the  long  halloo 

And  golden-eyed  tu-whit,  tu-whoo  of  owls  that  ogle  London. 

or  Noah  hardly  knew  a  bird  of  any  kind  that  isn  't  heard 
At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh,  so  near  to  London !) 
And  when  the  rose  begins  to  pout  and  all  the  chestnut  spires 

are  out 

You'll  hear  the  rest  without  a  doubt,  all  chorusing  for 
London : — 


36  MODERN  VERSE 


Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time? 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London!) 
And  you,  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's 
wonderland; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London!) 

And  then  the  troubadour  begins  to  thrill  the  golden  street, 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 

And  in  all  the  gaudy  busses  there  are  scores  of  weary  feet 
Marking  time,  sweet  time,  with  a  dull  mechanic  beat, 
And  a  thousand  hearts  are  plunging  to  a  love  they'll  never 

meet, 
Through  the  meadows  of  the  sunset,  through  the  poppies  and 

the  wheat, 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

Verdi,  Verdi,  when  you  wrote  II  Trovatore  did  you  dream 

Of  the  City  when  the  sun  sinks  low, 
Of  the  organ  and  the  monkey  and  the  many-colored  stream 
On  the  Piccadilly  pavement,  of  the  myriad  eyes  that  seem 
To  be  litten  for  a  moment  with  a  wild  Italian  gleam 
As  A  che  la  morte  parodies  the  world's  eternal  theme 

And  pulses  with  the  sunset-glow? 

There's  a  thief,  perhaps,  that  listens  with  a  face  of  frozen 

stone 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 

There 's  a  portly  man  of  business  with  a  balance  of  his  own, 
There's  a  clerk  and  there's  a  butcher  of  a  soft  reposeful  tone. 
And  they're  all  of  them  returning  to  the  heavens  they  have 

known : 
They  are  crammed  and  jammed  in  busses  and — they're  each  of 

them  alone 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 


THE  CITY  37 


There's  a  very  modish  woman  and  her  smile  is  very  bland 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 

And  her  hansom  jingles  onward,  but  her  little  jeweled  hand 
Is  clenched  a  little  tighter  arid  she  cannot  understand 
What  she  wants  or  why  she  wanders  to  that  undiscovered  land, 
For  the  parties  there  are  not  at  all  the  sort  of  thing  she 
planned, 

In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  rowing  man  that  listens  and  his  heart  is  crying  out 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
For  the  barge,  the  eight,  the  Isis,  and  the  coach's  whoop  and 

shout, 
For  the  minute-gun,  the  counting  and  the  long  dishevelled 

rout, 

For  the  howl  along  the  tow-path  and  a  fate  that's  still  in  doubt, 
For  a  roughened  oar  to  handle  and  a  race  to  think  about 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  laborer  that  listens  to  the  voices  of  the  dead 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 

And  his  hand  begins  to  tremble  and  his  face  to  smoulder  red 
As  he  sees  a  loafer  watching  him  and — there  he  turns  his  head 
And  stares  into  the  sunset  where  his  April  love  is  fled, 
For  he  hears  her  softly  singing  and  his  lonely  soul  is  led 

Through  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  an  old  and  haggard  demi-rep,  it's  ringing  in  her  ears, 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
With  the  wild  and  empty  sorrow  of  the  love  that  blights  and 

sears, 

Oh,  and  if  she  hurries  onward,  then  be  sure,  be  sure  she  hears, 
Hears  and  bears  the  bitter  burden  of  the  unforgotten  years, 


38  MODERN  VERSE 

And  her  laugh's  a  little  harsher  and  her  eyes  are  brimmed 

with  tears 
For  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  barrel-organ  caroling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
Though  the  music's  only  Verdi  there's  a  world  to  make  it 

sweet 

Just  as  yonder  yellow  sunset  where  the  earth  and  heaven  meet 
Mellows  all  the  sooty  City!  Hark,  a  hundred  thousand  feet 
Are  marching  on  to  glory  through  the  poppies  and  the  wheat 

In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

So  it 's  Jeremiah,  Jeremiah, 

What  have  you  to  say 
When  you  meet  the  garland  girls 

Tripping  on  their  way? 

All  around  my  gala  hat 

I  wear  a  wreath  of  roses 
(A  long  and  lonely  year  it  is 

I've  waited  for  the  May!) 
If  any  one  should  ask  you, 

The  reason  why  I  wear  it  is — 
My  own  love,  my  true  love 

Is  coming  home  to-day. 

And  it's  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady 

(It's  lilac-time  in  London;  it's  lilac-time  in  London!) 

Buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady 
While  the  sky  burns  blue  above: 

On  the  other  side  of  the  street  you'll  find  it  shady 

(It's  lilac-time  in  London;  it's  lilac-time  in  London!) 


THE  CITY  39 

But  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady 
And  tell  her  she's  your  own  true  love. 

There's  a  barrel-organ  caroling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  glittering  and  slow ; 
And  the  music 's  not  immortal ;  but  the  world  has  made  it  sweet 
And  enriched  it  with  the  harmonies  that  make  a  song  complete 
In  the  deeper  heavens  of  music  where  the  night  and  morning 
meet, 

As  it  dies  into  the  sunset-glow; 
And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City  and  the  pain 

That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large  eternal  light, 
And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play  again 

In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 

And  there,  as  the  music  changes, 

The  song  runs  round  again. 
Once  more  it  turns  and  ranges 

Through  all  its  joy  and  pain, 
Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets; 
And  the  wheeling  world  remembers  all 

The  wheeling  song  forgets. 

Once  more  La  Traviata  sighs 

Another  sadder  song: 
Once  more  II  Trovatore  cries 
A  tale  of  deeper  wrong ; 
Once  more  the  knights  to  battle  go 

"With  sword  and  shield  and  lance 
Till  once,  once  more,  the  shattered  foe 
Has  whirled  into — a  dance! 


40  MODERN  VERSE 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London!) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  summer's 

wonderland; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from  London!) 

— Alfred  Noyes 


THE  COUNTRY 


THE  GREEN  INN 

I  sicken  of  men's  company, 
The  crowded  tavern's  din, 

Where  all  day  long  with  oath  and  song 
Sit  they  who  entrance  win, 

So  come  I  out  from  noise  and  rout 
To  rest  in  God's  Green  Inn. 

Here  none  may  mock  an  empty  purse 
Or  ragged  coat  and  poor, 

But  Silence  waits  within  the  gates, 
And  Peace  beside  the  door; 

The  weary  guest  is  welcomest, 
The  richest  pays  no  score. 

The  roof  is  high  and  arched  and  blue, 
The  floor  is  spread  with  pine; 

On  my  four  walls  the  sunlight  falls 
In  golden  flecks  and  fine ; 

And  swift  and  fleet  on  noiseless  feet 
The  Four  Winds  bring  me  wine. 

Upon  my  board  they  set  their  store — 
Great  drinks  mixed  cunningly, 

Wherein  the  scent  of  furze  is  blent 
With  odor  of  the  sea; 

As  from  a  cup  I  drink  it  up 
To  thrill  the  veins  of  me. 

It's  I  will  sit  in  God's  Green  Inn 

Unvexed  by  man  or  ghost, 
Yet  ever  fed  and  comforted, 
43 


44  MODERN  VERSE 

Companioned  by  mine  host, 
And  watched  at  night  by  that  white  light 
High  swung  from  coast  to  coast. 

Oh,  you  who  in  the  House  of  Strife 

Quarrel  and  game   and  sin, 
Come  out  and  see  what  cheer  may  be 

For  starveling  souls  and  thin, 
Who  come  at  last  from  drought  and  fast 

To  sit  in  God's  Green  Inn. 

— Theodosia  Garrison 


Now  the  Four-way  Lodge  is  opened,  now  the  Hunting  Winds 

are  loose — 

Now  the  Smokes  of  Spring  go  up  to  clear  the  brain ; 
Now  the  Young  Men's  hearts  are  troubled  for  the  whisper  of 

the  Trues, 

Now  the  Red  Gods  make  their  medicine  again! 
Who  hath  seen  the  beaver  busied?    Who  hath  watched  the 

black-tail  mating? 

Who  hath  lain  alone  to  hear  the  wild-goose  cry? 
Who  hath  worked  the  chosen  water  where  the  ouananiche  is 

waiting 
Or  the  sea-trout's  jumping-crazy  for  the  fly? 


THE  COUNTRY  45 

He  must  go — go — go  away  from  here! 

On  the  other  side  the  world  he's  overdue. 
'Send  your  road  is  clear  before  you  when  the  old  Spring- 

fret  comes  o'er  you, 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  for  you! 

So  for  one  the  wet  sail  arching  through  the  rainbow  round 

the  bow, 

And  for  one  the  creak  of  snow-shoes  on  the  crust ; 
And  for  one  the  lakeside  lilies  where  the  bull-moose  waits  the 

cow, 

And  for  one  the  mule-train  coughing  in  the  dust. 
Who  hath  smelt  wood-smoke  at  twilight?     Who  hath  heard 

the  birch-log  burning? 

Who  is  quick  to  read  the  noises  of  the  night? 
Let  him  follow  with  the  others,  for  the  Young  Men's  feet  are 

turning 
To  the  camps  of  proved  desire  and  known  delight ! 

Let  him  go — go,  etc. 

I 

Do  you  know  the  blackened  timber — do  you  know  that  racing 

stream 

With  the  raw,  right-angled  log-jam  at  the  end; 
And  the  bar  of  sun-warmed  shingle  where  a  man  may  bask 

and  dream 

To  the  click  of  shod  canoe-poles  round  the  bend? 
It  is  there  that  we  are  going  with  our  rods  and  reels  and 

traces, 
To  a  silent,  smoky  Indian  that  we  know — 


46  MODERN  VERSE 

To  a  couch  of  new-pulled  hemlock,  with  the  starlight  on  our 

faces, 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  us  out  and  we  must  go ! 

They  must  go — go,  etc. 

II 

Do  you  know  the  shallow  Baltic  where  the  seas  are  steep  and 

short, 

"Where  the  bluff,  lee-boarded  fishing-luggers  ride? 
Do  you  know  the  joy  of  threshing  leagues  to  leeward  of  your 

port 

On  a  coast  you've  lost  the  chart  of  overside  ? 
It  is  there  that  I  am  going,  with  an  extra  hand  to  bale  her — 

Just  one  able   'long-shore  loafer  that  I  know. 
He  can  take  his  chance  of  drowning,  while  I  sail  and  sail  and 
sail  her, 

For  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go ! 

. 
He  must  go — go,  etc. 

Ill 

Do  you  know  the  pile-built  village  where  the  sago-dealers 
trade — 

Do  you  know  the  reek  of  fish  and  wet  bamboo  ? 
Do  you  know  the  steaming  stillness  of  the  orchid-scented  glade 

When  the  blazoned,  bird-winged  butterflies  flap  through? 
It  is  there  that  I  am  going  with  my  camphor,  net  and  boxes, 

To  a  gentle,  yellow  pirate  that  I  know — 
To  my  little  wailing  lemurs,  to  my  palms  and  flying-foxes, 

For  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go ! 

He  must  go — go,  etc. 


THE  COUNTRY  47 

IV 

Do  you  know  the  world's  white  roof -tree — do  you  know  that 

windy  rift 

Where  the  baffling  mountain-eddies  chop  and  change? 
Do  you  know  the  long  day's  patience,  belly-down  on  frozen 

drift, 

While  the  head  of  heads  is  feeding  out  of  range? 
It  is  there  that  I  am  going,  where  the  boulders  and  the  snow 

lie, 

With  a  trusty,  nimble  tracker  that  I  know. 
[  have  sworn  an  oath,  to  keep  it  on  the  Horns  of  Ovis  Poli, 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go ! 
He  must  go — go,  etc. 

Now  the  Four-way  Lodge  is  opened — now  the   Smokes   of 

Council  rise — 

Pleasant  smokes,  ere  yet  7twixt  trail  and  trail  they  choose — 
Now  the  girths  and  ropes  are  tested :  now  they  pack  their  last 

supplies: 

Now  our  Young  Men  go  to  dance  before  the  Trues! 
Who  shall  meet  them  at  those  altars — who  shall  light  them  to 

that  shrine? 

Velvet-footed,  who  shall  guide  them  to  their  goal? 
Unto  each  the  voice  and  vision  :  unto  each  his  spoor  and  sign — 
Lonely  mountain  in  the  Northland,  misty  sweat-bath   'neath 

the  Line — 

And  to  each  a  man  that  knows  his  naked  soul ! 
White  or  yellow,  black  or  copper,  he  is  waiting,  as  a  lover. 

Smoke  of  funnel,  dust  of  hooves,  or  beat  of  train — 
Where  the  high  grass  hides  the  horseman  or  the  glaring  flats 

discover — 

Where  the  steamer  hails  the  landing,  or  the  surf-boat  ormgs 
the  rover — 


48  MODERN  VERSE 

Where  the  rails  run  out  in  sand-drift  .  .  .  Quick!  ah  heave 

the  camp-kit  over, 
For  the  Red  Gods  make  their  medicine  again ! 

And  we  go — go — go  away  from  here! 

On  the  other  side  the  world  we're  overdue! 
'Send  the  road  is  clear  before  you  when  the  old  Spring 

fret  comes  o'er  you, 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  for  you! 

Rudyard  Kipling 


Come  with  rain,  0  loud  South  wester! 
Bring  the  singer,  bring  the  nester ; 
Give  the  buried  flower  a  dream ; 
Make  the  settled  snow-bank  steam; 
Find  the  brown  beneath  the  white; 
But  whatever  you  do  to-night, 
Bathe  my  window,  make  it  flow, 
Melt  it  as  the  ices  go; 
Melt  the  glass  and  leave  the  sticks 
Like  a  hermit's  crucifix; 
Burst  into  my  narrow  stall ; 
Swing  the  picture  on  the  wall ; 
Run  the  rattling  pages  o'er; 
Scatter  poems  on  the  floor; 
Turn  the  poet  out  of  door. 

— Robert  Frost 


THE  COUNTRY  49 


MISTER  HOP-TOAD  * 

Howdy,  Mister  Hop-Toad !     Glad  to  see  you  out ! 

Bin  a  month  o'  Sundays  sence  I  seen  you  hereabout. 
Kind  o'  bin  a-layin'  in,  from  the  frost  and  snow? 
Good  to  see  you  out  ag'in,  it's  bin  so  long  ago! 
Plows  like  slicin'  cheese,  and  sod's  loppin'  over  even; 
Loam's  like  gingerbread,  and  clods 's  softer 'n  deceivin' — 
Mister  Hop-Toad,  honest-true — Springtime — don't  you  love  it? 
You  old  rusty  rascal  you,  at  the  bottom  of  it ! 

Oh,  oh,  oh! 
I  grabs  up  my  old  hoe; 
But  I  sees  you, 
And  s'  I,  "Ooh-ooh! 
Howdy,  Mister  Hop-Toad!     How-dee-do!" 

Make  yourse'f  more  cumfo'bler — square  round  at  your  ease — 
Don't  set  saggin'  slanchwise,  with  your  nose  below  your  knees. 
Swell  that  fat  old  throat  o'  yourn  and  lemme  see  you  swaller; 
Straighten  up  and  hi'st  your  head! — You  don't  owe  a 

dollar! — 

Hain't  no  mor'gage  on  your  land — ner  no  taxes,  nuther; 
You  don't  haf  to  work  no  roads — even  ef  you'd  ruther! 
'F  I  was  you,  and  fixed  like  you,  I  railly  wouldn't  keer 
To  swop  f er  life  and  hop  right  in  the  presidential  cheer  1 

Oh,  oh,  oh ! 

I  hauls  back  my  old  hoe; 

*  From  the  Biographical  Edition  of  the  Complete  Works  of  James 
Whitcomb  Riley,  copyright  1^13.  Used  by  special  permission  of  th« 
publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


60  MODERN  VERSE 

But  I  sees  you, 
And  s'  I,  "Ooh-ooh! 
Howdy,  Mister  Hop-Toad!     How-dee-do!" 

Long  about  next  Aprile,  hoppin'  down  the  furry,  . 

Won't  you  mind  I  ast  you  what  'peared  to  be  the  hurry? — 

Won't  you  mind  I  hooked  my  hoe  and  hauled  you  back  and 

smiled  ? — 

W'y  bless  you,  Mister  Hop-Toad,  I  love  you  like  a  child! 
S'pose  I'd  want  to  'flict  you  any  more'n  what  you  air? — • 
S  'pose  I  think  you  got  no  rights  'cept  the  warts  you  wear  ? 
Hulk,  sulk,  and  blink  away,  you  old  bloat-eyed  rowdy  i — 
Hain't  you  got  a  word  to  say? — Won't  you  tell  me  "Howdy"? 

Oh,  oh,  oh ! 

I  swish  round  my  old  hoe ; 
But  I  sees  you, 
And  s'  I,  "Ooh-ooh! 
Howdy,  Mister  Hop-Toad!     How-dee-do!" 

— James  Whitcomb  Eiley 


TO  A  POET 

(BY  SPEING) 

Yes,  Poet,  I  am  coming  down  to  earth, 

To  spend  the  merry  months  of  blossom- time ; 

But  don 't  break  out  in  paeans  of  glad  mirth 
(Expressed  in  hackneyed  rhyme.) 


THE  COUNTRY  51 

For  once,  dear  Poet,  won't  you  kindly  skip 
Your  ode  of  welcome?     It  is  such  a  bore; 
I  am  no  chicken,  and  I've  made  the  trip 
Six  thousand  times  or  more. 

And  as  I  flutter  earthward  every  year, 
You  must  admit  that  it  grows  rather  stale 

When  I  arrive,  repeatedly  to  hear 
The  same  old  annual  "Hail"! 

Time  was  when  I  enjoyed  the  poet's  praise, 
Will  Shakspere's  song,  or  Mr.  Milton's  hymn; 

Or  even  certain  little  twittering  lays 
By  ladies  quaint  and  prim. 

Chaucer  and  Spenser  filled  me  with  delight, — 
And  how  I  loved  to  hear  Bob  Herrick  woo ! 

Old  Omar  seemed  to  think  I  was  all  right, 
And  Aristotle,  too. 

But  I  am  sated  with  this  fame  and  glory, 
Oh,  Poet,  leave  Parnassian  heights  unsealed; 

This  time  let  me  be  spared  the  same  old  story, 
And  ccme  for  once  unhailed! 

— Carolyn  Wells 


MAY  IS  BUILDING  HER  HOUSE 

May  is  building  her  house.     With  apple  blooms 

She  is  roofing   over  the  glimmering  rooms; 

Of  the  oak  and  the  beech  hath  she  builded  its  beams, 


52  MODERN  VERSE 

And,  spinning  all  day  at  her  secret  looms, 
With  arras  of  leaves  each  wind-sprayed  wall 
She  pictureth  over,  and  peopleth  it  all 

With  echoes  and  dreams, 

And  singing  of  streams. 

May  is  building  her  house  of  petal  and  blade; 
Of  the  roots  of  the  oak  is  the  flooring  made, 
With  a  carpet  of  mosses  and  lichen  and  clover, 
Each  small  miracle  over  and  over, 
And  tender,  traveling  green  things  strayed. 

Her  windows  the  morning  and  evening  star, 
And  her  rustling  doorways,  ever  ajar 

With  the  coming  and  going 

Of  fair  things  blowing, 
The  thresholds  of  the  four  winds  are. 

May  is  building  her  house.     From  the  dust  of  things 
She  is  making  the  songs  and  the  flowers  and  the  wings; 
From  October's  tossed  and  trodden  gold 
She  is  making  the  young  year  out  of  the  old; 
Yea!  out  of  the  winter's  flying  sleet 
She  is  making  all  the  summer  sweet, 
And  the  brown  leaves  spurned  of  November's  feet 
She  is  changing  back  again  to  spring's. 

— Richard  Le  Gallienne 


THE  COUNTRY  53 


A  MOUNTAIN  GATEWAY  * 

I  know  a  vale  where  I  would  go  one  day, 

"When  June  comes  back  and  all  the  world  once  more 

Is  glad  with  summer.     Deep  with  shade  it  lies, 

A  mighty  cleft  in  the  green  bosoming  hills, 

A  cool,  dim  gateway  to  the  mountains'  heart. 

On  either  side  the  wooded  slopes  come  down, 
Hemlock  and  beech  and  chestnut;  here  and  there 
Through  the  deep  forest  laurel  spreads  and  gleams, 
Pink-white  as  Daphne  in  her  loveliness — 
That  still  perfection  from  the  world  withdrawn, 
As  if  the  wood  gods  had  arrested  there 
Immortal  beauty  in  her  breathless  flight. 

Far  overhead  against  the  arching  blue 
Gray  ledges  overhang  from  dizzy  heights 
Scarred  by  a  thousand  winters  and  untamed. 
The  road  winds  in  from  the  broad  riverlands, 
Luring  the  happy  traveler  turn  by  turn, 
Up  to  the  lofty  mountain  of  the  sky. 

And  where  the  road  runs  in  the  valley's  foot, 

Through  the  dark  woods  the  mountain  stream  comes  down, 

Singing  and  dancing  all  its  youth  away 

Among  the  boulders  and  the  shallow  runs, 

Where  sunbeams  pierce  and  mossy  tree  trunks  hang, 

Drenchod  all  day  long  with  murmuring  sound  and  spray. 

There,  light  of  heart  and  footfree,  I  would  go 

*  From  April  Airs,  by  Bliss  Carman.  Copyright,  1916,  by  Small, 
[aynard  and  Company.  Inc.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers, 
mall,  Maynard  and  Company,  Inc. 


54  MODERN  VERSE 

Up  to  my  home  among  the  lasting  hills, 
And  in  my  cabin  doorway  sit  me  down, 
Companioned  in  that  leafy  solitude 
By  the  wood  ghosts  of  twilight  and  of  peace. 

And  in  that  sweet  seclusion  I  should  hear, 

Among  the  cool-leafed  beeches  in  the  dusk, 

The  calm-voiced  thrushes  at  their  evening  hymn — 

So  undistraught,  so  rapturous,  so  pure, 

It  well  might  be,  in  wisdom  and  in  joy, 

The  seraphs  singing  at  the  birth  of  time 

The  unworn  ritual  of  eternal  things. 

— BUss  Carman 


HAYMAKING 

After  night's  thunder  far  away  had  rolled, 

The  fiery  day  had  a  kernel  sweet  of  cold, 

And  in  the  perfect  blue  the  clouds  uncurled, 

Like  the  first  gods  before  they  made  the  world 

And  misery,  swimming  the  stormless  sea 

In  beauty  and  in  divine  gaiety. 

The  smooth  white  empty  road  was  lightly  strewn 

With  leaves — the  holly's  Autumn   falls  in  June — 

And  fir  cones  standing  stiff  up  in  the  heat. 

The  mill-foot  water  tumbled  white  and  lit 

With  tossing  crystals,  happier  than  any  crowd 

Of  children  pouring  out  of  school  aloud. 

And  in  the  little  thickets  where  a  sleeper 

Forever  might  lie  lost,  the  nettle-creeper 

And  garden  warbler  sang  unceasingly ; 

While  over  them  shrill  shrieked  in  his  fierce  glee 

The  swift  with  wings  and  tail  as  sharp  and  narrow 


THE  COUNTRY  55 

As  if  the  bow  had  flown  off  with  the  arrow. 
Only  the  scent  of  woodbine  and  hay  new-mown 
Traveled  the  road.     In  the  field  sloping  down, 
Park-like,   to  where   its  willows  showed  the  brook, 
Haymakers  rested.     The  tosser  lay  forsook 
Out  in  the  sun ;  and  the  long  wagon  stood 
Without  its  team;  it  seemed  it  never  would 
Move  from  the  shadow  of  that  single  yew. 
The  team,  as  still,  until  their  task  was  due, 
Beside  the  laborers  enjoyed  the  shade 
That  three  squat  oaks  mid-field  together  made 
Upon  a  circle  of  grass  and  weed  uncut, 
And  on  the  hollow,  once  a  chalk-pit,  but 
Now  brimmed  with  nut  and  elder-flower  so  clean. 
The  men  leaned  on  their  rakes,  about  to  begin, 
But  still.     And  all  were  silent.     All  was  old, 
This  morning  time,  with  a  great  age  untold, 
Older  than  Clare  and  Cobbett,  Morland  and  Crome, 
Than,  at  the  field's  far  edge,  the  farmer's  home, 
A  white  house  crouched  at  the  foot  of  a  great  tree. 
Under  the  heavens  that  know  not  what  years  be 
The  men,  the  beasts,  the  trees,  the  implements 
Uttered  even  what  they  will  in  times  far  hence — 
All  of  us  gone  out  of  the  reach  of  change — 
Immortal  in  a  picture  of  an  old  grange. 

— Edward  Thomas 


56  MODERN  VERSE 

AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  DAY  ON  THE 
PRAIRIE  * 

(IN  THE  BEGINNING) 

The  sun  is  a  huntress  young, 
The  sun  is  a  red,  red  joy, 
The  sun  is  an  Indian  girl, 
Of  the  tribe  of  the  Illinois. 

(MID-MORNING) 

The  sun  is  a  smoldering  fire, 

That  creeps  through  the  high  gray  plain, 

And  leaves  not  a  bush  of  cloud 

To  blossom  with  flowers  of  rain. 

(NOON) 

The  sun  is  a  wounded  deer, 
That  treads  pale  grass  in  the  skies, 
Shaking  his  golden  horns, 
Flashing  his  baleful  eyes. 

(SUNSET) 

The  sun  is  an  eagle  old, 
There  in  the  windless  west. 
Atop  of  the  spirit-cliffs 
He  builds  him  a  crimson  nest. 

— Vachel  Lindsay 


*  From  The  Congo,  by  Vachel  Lindsay.     Used  by  special  permission 
of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


THE  COUNTRY  57 


A  GREETING 

Good  morning,  Life — and  all 
Things  glad  and  beautiful. 
My  pockets  nothing  hold, 
But  he  that  owns  the  gold, 
The  Sun,  is  my  great  friend — 
His  spending  has  no  end. 

Hail  to  the  morning  sky, 
Which  bright  clouds  measure  high; 
Hail  to  you  birds  whose  throats 
Would  number  leaves  by  notes; 
Hail  to  you  shady  bowers, 
And  you  green  fields  of  flowers. 

Hail  to  you  women  fair, 
That  make  a  show  so  rare 
In  cloth  as  white  as  milk — 
Be't  calico  or  silk: 
Good  morning,  Life — and  all 
Things  glad  and  beautiful. 

— William  H.  Davies 


o8  MODERN  VERSE 

A  VAGABOND  SONG  * 

There  is  something  in  the  autumn  that  is  native  to  my  blood- 
Touch  of  manner,  hint  of  mood; 
And  my  heart  is  like  a  rhyme, 
With  the  yellow  and  the  purple  and  the  crimson  keeping  time 

The  scarlet  of  the  maples  can  shake  me  like  a  cry 

Of  bugles  going  by, 

And  my  lonely  spirit  thrills 

To  see  the  frosty  asters  like  a  smoke  upon  the  hills. 

There  is  something  in  October  sets  the  gypsy  blood  astir; 

We  must  rise  and  follow  her, 

When  from  every  hill  of  flame 

She  calls  and  calls  each  vagabond  by  name. 

— Bliss  Carman  and  Richard  Hovey 


THREE  PIECES  ON  THE  SMOKE  OF 
AUTUMN 

Smoke  of  autumn  is  on  it  all. 

The  streamers  loosen  and  travel. 

The  red  west  is  stopped  with  a  gray  haze. 

They  fill  the  ash  trees,  they  wrap  the  oaks, 

They  make  a  long-tailed  rider 

In  the  pocket  of  the  first,  the  earliest  evening  star. 


*  From  More  Songs  from  Vaga'bondia,  by  Bliss  Carman  and  Richard 
Hovey.     Copyright,  1896,  by  Bliss  Carman  and  Richard  Hovey. 


THE  COUNTRY  59 

Three  muskrats  swim  west  on  the  Desplaines  River. 

There  is  a  sheet  of  red  ember  glow  on  the  river;  it  is  dusk; 
and  the  muskrats  one  by  one  go  on  patrol  routes  west. 

Around  each  slippery  padding  rat,  a  fan  of  ripples;  in  the 
silence  of  dusk  a  faint  wash  of  ripples,  the  padding  of  the 
rats  going  west,  in  a  dark  and  shivering  river  gold. 

(A  newspaper  in  my  pocket  says  the  Germans  pierce  the 
Italian  line;  I  have  letters  from  poets  and  sculptors  in 
Greenwich  Village;  I  have  letters  from  an  ambulance 
man  in  France  and  an  I.  "W.  "W.  man  in  Vladivostok.) 

I  lean  on  an  ash  and  watch  the  lights  fall,  the  red  ember  glow, 
and  three  muskrats  swim  west  in  a  fan  of  ripples  on  a 
sheet  of  river  gold. 


Better  the  blue  silence  and  the  gray  west, 

The  autumn  mist  on  the  river, 

And  not  any  hate  and  not  any  love, 

And  not  anything  at  all  of  the  keen  and  the  deep. 

Only  the  peace  of  a  dog  head  on  a  barn  floor. 

And  the  new  corn  shoveled  in  bushels 

And  the  pumpkins  brought  from  the  corn  rows, 

Umber  lights  of  the  dark, 

Umber  lanterns  of  the  loam  dark. 

Here  a  dog  head  dreams. 

Not  any  hate,  not  any  love. 

Not  anything  but  dreams. 

Brother  of  dusk  and  umber. 

— Carl  Sandburg 


60  MODERN  VERSE 


O  world,  I  cannot  hold  thee  close  enough! 

Thy  winds,  thy  wide  gray  skies! 

Thy  mists  that  roll  and  rise ! 
Thy  woods  this  autumn  day,  that  ache  and  sag 
And  all  but  cry  with  color!     That  gaunt  crag 
To  crush!     To  lift  the  lean  of  that  black  bluff! 
"World,  World,  I  cannot  get  thee  close  enough ! 

Long  have  I  known  a  glory  in  it  all, 

But  never  knew  I  this; 

Here  such  a  passion  is 

As  stretcheth  me  apart, Lord,  I  do  fear 

Thou  'st  made  the  world  too  beautiful  this  year ; 
My  soul  is  all  but  out  of  me, — let  fall 
No  burning  leaf;  prithee,  let  no  bird  call. 

— Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 


AFTER  APPLE-PICKING 

My  long  two-pointed  ladder's  sticking  through  a  tree 

Toward  heaven  still, 

And  there's  a  barrel  that  I  didn't  fill 

Beside  it,  and  there  may  be  two  or  three 

Apples  I  didn't  pick  upon  some  bough. 

But  I  am  done  with  apple-picking  now. 

Essence  of  winter  sleep  is  on  the  night, 

The  scent  of  apples :  I  am  drowsing  off. 

I  cannot  rub  the  strangeness  from  my  sight 


THE  COUNTRY  61 

I  got  from  looking  through  a  pane  of  glass 

I  skimmed  this  morning  from  the  drinking  trough 

And  held  against  the  world  of  hoary  grass. 

It  melted,  and  I  let  it  fall  and  break. 

But  I  was  well 

Upon  my  way  to  sleep  before  it  fell, 

And  I  could  tell 

What  form  my  dreaming  was  about  to  take. 

Magnified  apples  appear  and  disappear, 

Stem  end  and  blossom  end, 

And  every  fleck  of  russet  showing  clear. 

My  instep  arch  not  only  keeps  the  ache, 

It  keeps  the  pressure  of  a  ladder-round. 

I  feel  the  ladder  sway  as  the  boughs  bend. 

And  I  keep  hearing  from  the  cellar  bin 

The  rumbling  sound 

Of  load  on  load  of  apples  coming  in. 

For  I  have  had  too  much 

Of  apple-picking :  I  am  overtired 

Of  the  great  harvest  I  myself  desired. 

There  were  ten  thousand  thousand  fruit  to  touch, 

Cherish  in  hand,  lift  down,  and  not  let  fall. 

For  all 

That  struck  the  earth, 

No  matter  if  not  bruised  or  spiked  with  stubble, 

Went  surely  to  the  cider-apple  heap 

As  of  no  worth. 

One  can  see  what  will  trouble 

This  sleep  of  mine,  whatever  sleep  it  is. 

Were  he  not  gone, 

The  woodchuck  could  say  whether  it's  like  his 

Long  sleep,  as  I  describe  its  coming  on, 

Or  just  some  human  sleep. 

— Robert  Frost 


62  MODERN  VERSE 


BROTHER  BEASTS  * 

Winter  is  here 
And  there  are  no  leaves 
On  the  naked  trees, 
Save  stars  twinkling 
As  the  wind  blows. 
Soft  to  the  branches 
The  little  screech-owl 
Silently  comes. 
Silently  goes, 
With  weird  tremolos. 

I  would  go  out 
And  gather  the  stars 
The  wind  shakes  down, 
Were  they  not  scattered 
So  far  in  the  West. 
I  would  go  ask 
The  little  screech-owl 
If  he  finds  ease 
There  in  his  nest 
After  his  quest. 

I  would  go  learn 
If  the  small  gray  mouse 
Who  sets  up  house 
In  the  frozen  meadow 
Dreams  of  the  stars. 
Or  what  he  thinks 

*  Taken  from  Wraiths  and  Realities,  by  Cale  Young  Rice,  by  permis 
sion  of  the  publishers,  The  Century  Co. 


THE  COUNTRY  63 

There  in  the  dark, 
When  flake  on  flake 
Of  white  snow  bars 
Him  in  with  its  spars. 

I  would  go  out 

And  learn  these  things 

That  I  may  know 

What  dream  or  desire 

Troubles  my  brothers 

In  nest  or  hole. 

For  even  as  I 

The  owl  and  the  mouse, 

Or  blinded  mole 

With  unborn  soul, 

May  have  some  goal. 

— Gale  Young  Rice 


BIRCHES 

When  I  see  birches  bend  to  left  and  right 
Across  the  lines  of  straighter  darker  trees, 
I  like  to  think  some  boy's  been  swinging  them. 
But  swinging  doesn't  bend  them  down  to  stay. 
Ice-storms  do  that.     Often  you  must  have  seen  them 
Loaded  with  ice  a  sunny  winter  morning 
After  a  rain.     They  click  upon  themselves 
As  the  breeze  rises,  and  turn  many-colored 
-A<^  the  stip-1'.vfl.rkft  anil  r.vnaan  -rimlf  Krrf*mt't~~~ 
Soon  the  sun's  warmth  makes  them  shed  crystal  shells 
Shattering  and  avalanching  on  the  snow-crust — 


64  MODERN  VERSE 

Such  heaps  of  broken  glass  to  sweep  away 

You'd  think  the  inner  dome  of  heaven  had  fallen. 

They  are  dragged  to  the  withered  bracken  by  the  load, 

And  they  seem  not  to  break ;  though  once  they  are  bowed 

So  low  for  long,  they  never  right  themselves : 

You  may  see  their  trunks  arching  in  the  woods 

Years  afterwards,  trailing  their  leaves  on  the  ground 

Like  k'irls  on  hands  and  knees  that  throw  their  hair 

Before  them  over  their  heads  to  dry  in  the  sun. 

But  I  was  going  to  say  when  Truth  broke  in 

With  all  her  matter-of-fact  about  the  ice-storm 

(Now  am  I  free  to  be  poetical?) 

I  should  prefer  to  have  some  boy  bend  them 

As  he  went  out  and  in  to  fetch  the  cows — 

Some  boy  too  far  from  town  to  learn  baseball, 

Whose  only  play  was  what  he  found  himself, 

Summer  or  winter,  and  could  play  alone. 

One  by  one  he  subdued  his  father's  trees 

By  riding  them  down  over  and  over  again 

Until  he  took  the  stiffness  out  of  them, 

And  not  one  but  hung  limp,  not  one  was  left 

For  him  to  conquer.     He  learned  all  there  was 

To  learn  about  not  launching  out  too  soon 

And  so  not  carrying  the  tree  away 

Clear  to  the  ground.     He  always  kept  his  poise 

To  the  top  branches,  climbing  carefully 

With  the  same  pains  you  use  to  fill  a  cup 

Up  to  the  brim,  and  even  above  the  brim. 

Then  he  flung  outward,  feet  first,  with  a  swish, 

Kicking  his  way  down  through  the  air  to  the  ground. 

So  was  I  once  myself  a  swinger  of  birchea 

And  so  I  dream  of  going  back  to  be. 

It's  when  I'm  weary  of  ronsidorations, 

A.nd  life  is  too  much  like  a  pathless  wood 


THE  COUNTRY  65 

Where  your  face  burns  and  tickles  with  the  cobwebs 

Broken  across  it,  and  one  eye  is  weeping 

From  a  twig's  having  lashed  across  it  open. 

I  'd  like  to  get  away  from  earth  awhile 

And  then  come  back  to  it  and  begin  over. 

May  no  fate  willfully  misunderstand  me 

And  half  grant  what  I  wish  and  snatch  me  away 

Not  to  return.     Earth's  the  right  place  for  love: 

I  don't  know  where  it's  likely  to  go  better. 

I'd  like  to  go  by  climbing  a  birch  tree, 

And  climb  black  branches  up  a  snow-white  trunk 

Toward  heaven,  till  the  tree  could  bear  no  more, 

But  dipped  its  top  and  set  me  down  again. 

That  would  be  good  both  going  and  coming  back. 

One  could  do  worse  than  be  a  swinger  of  birches 

— Robert  Frost 


HIGHMOUNT 

Hills,  you  have  answered  the  craving 

That  spurred  me  to  come ; 
You  have  opened  your  deep  blue  bosom 

And  taken  me  home. 

The  sea  had  filled  me  with  the  stress 

Of  its  own  restlessness ; 

My  voice  was  in  that  angry  roll 

Of  passion  beating  upon  the  world. 

The  ground  beneath  me  shifted;  I  was  swirled 

In  an  implacable  flood  that  howled  to  see 

Its  breakers  rising  in  me, 

A  torrent  rushing  through  my  soul. 

And  tearing  things  free 


66  MODERN  VERSE 

I  could  not  control. 

A  monstrous  impatience,  a  stubborn  and  vain 

Repetition  of  madness  and  longing,  of  question  and  pain, 

Driving  me  up  to  the  brow  of  this  hill — 

Calling  and  questioning  still. 

And  you — you  smile 

In  ordered  calm ; 

You  wrap  yourself  in  cloudy  contemplation  while 

The  winds  go  shouting  their  heroic  psalm, 

The  streams  press  lovingly  about  your  feet 

And  trees,  like  birds  escaping  from  the  heat, 

Sit  in  great  flocks  and  fold  their  broad  green  wings.  . 

A  cow  bell  rings 

Like  a  sound  blurred  by  sleep, 

Giving  the  silence  a  rhythm 

That  makes  it  twice  as  deep.  .  .  . 

Somewhere  a  farm-hand  sings.  .  .  . 

And  here  you  stand 

Breasting  the  elemental  sea, 

And  put  forth  an  invisible  hand 

To  comfort  me. 

Rooted  in  quiet  confidence,  you  rise 

Above  the  frantic  and  assailing  years; 

Your  silent  faith  is  louder  than  the  cries; 

The  shattering  fears 

Break  and  subside  when  they  encounter  you. 

You  know  their  doubts,  the  desperate  questions — • 

And  the  answers  too. 

Hills,  you  are  strong;  and  my  burdens 

Are  scattered  like  foam. 
You  have  opened  your  deep,  blue  bosom 

And  taken  me  home. 

— Louis  Untermeyer 


THE  COUNTRY  67 


A  VIGNETTE 

Among  the  meadows 

lightly  going, 
With  worship  and  joy 

my  heart  o'erflowing, 

Far  from  town 
and  toil  of  living, 

To  a  holy  day 

my  spirit  giving,  .  .  « 

*     #     * 

Thou  tender  flower, 
I  kneel  beside  thee 

"Wondering  why  God 
so  beautified  thee. — 

An  answering  thought 
*vithin  me  springeth, 

A  bloom  of  the  mind 
her  vision  bringeth. 

Between  the  dim  hill's 

distant  azure 
And  flowery  foreground 

of  sparkling  pleasure 

I  see  the  company 
of  figures  sainted, 

For  whom  the  picture 
of  earth  was  painted. 


68  MODERN  VERSE 

Those  robed  seers 

who  made  man's  story 
The  crown  of  Nature, 

Her  cause  his  glory. 

They  walk  in  the  city 
which  they  have  builded, 

The  city  of  God 
from  evil  shielded : 

To  them  for  canopy 

the  vault  of  heaven, 
The  flowery   earth 

for  carpet  is  given; 

Whereon  I  wander 

not  unknowing, 
With  worship  and  joy 

my  heart  o'erflowing. 

— Robert  Bridges 


THE  WORLD'S  MISER* 

1 

A  miser  with  an  eager  face 

Sees  that  each  roseleaf  is  in  place. 

*  Reprinted    with    permission    from    Poems,    by    Theodore    Maynard. 
Copyright,  1919,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


THE  COUNTRY  69 

He  keeps  beneath  strong  bolts  and  bars 
The  piercing  beauty  of  the  stars. 

The  colours  of  the  dying  day 

He  hoards  as  treasure — well  He  may ! 

And  saves  with  care  (lest  they  be  lost) 
The  dainty  diagrams  of  frost. 

He  counts  the  hairs  of  every  head, 
And  grieves  to  see  a  sparrow  dead. 


II 

Among  the  yellow  primroses 
He  holds  His  summer  palaces, 

And  sets  the  grass  about  them  all 
To  guard  them  as  His  spearmen  small. 

He  fixes  on  each  wayside  stone 
A  mark  to  shew  it  as  His  Own, 

And  knows  when  raindrops  fall  through  air 
Whether  each  single  one  be  there, 

That  gathered  into  ponds  and  brooks 
They  may  become  His  picture-books, 

To  shew 'in  every  spot  and  place 
The  living  glory  of  His  face. 

— Theodore  Maynaid 


70  MODERN  VERSE 


GOOD  COMPANY 

To-day  I  have  grown  taller  from  walking  with  the  trees, 
The  seven  sister-poplars  who  go  softly  in  a  line ; 
And  I  think  my  heart  is  whiter  for  its  parley  with  a  star 
That  trembled  out  at  nightfall  and  hung  above  the  pine. 

The  call-note  of  a  redbird  from  the  cedars  in  the  dusk 
Woke  his  happy  mate  within  me  to  an  answer  free  and  fine; 
And  a  sudden  angel  beckoned  from  a  column  of  blue  smoke — 
Lord,  who  am  I  that  they  should  stoop — these  holy  folk  of 
thine? 

— Earle  Wilson  Baker 


IRRADIATIONS 

X. 

The  trees,  like  great  jade  elephants, 

Chained,  stamp  and  shake  'neath  the  gadflies  of  the  breeze; 
The  trees  lunge  and  plunge,  unruly  elephants : 
The  clouds  are  their  crimson  howdah-eanopies, 
The  sunlight  glints  like  the  golden  robe  of  a  Shah. 
Would  I  were  tossed  on  the  wrinkled  backs  of  those  trees. 

— John  Gould  Fletcher 


THE  COUNTRY  71 


TREES  * 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 
Against  the  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  Summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair ; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 

Joyce  Kilmer 


NIGHT-PIECE  * 

Ye  hooded  witches,  baleful  shapes  that  moan, 
Quench  your  fantastic  lanterns  and  be  still ; 

*  From  Joyce  Kilmer;  Poems,  Essays,  and  Letters,  copyright  1918, 
George  H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 

*  Taken  by  permission  from  The  Old  Huntsman,  by  Siegfried  Sassoon, 
copyrighted  by  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.,  New  York. 


72  MODERN  VERSE 

For  now  the  moon  through  heaven  sails  alone, 
Shedding  her  peaceful  rays  from  hill  to  hill. 
The  faun  from  out  his  dim  and  secret  place 
Draws  nigh  the  darkling  pool  and  from  his  dream 
Half-wakens,  seeing  there  his  sylvan  face 
Reflected,  and  the  wistful  eyes  that  gleam. 

To  his  cold  lips  he  sets  the  pipe  to  blow 

Some  drowsy  note  that  charms  the  listening  air : 

The  dryads  from  their  trees  come  down  and  creep 

Near  to  his  side;  monotonous  and  low, 

He  plays  and  plays  till  all  the  woodside  there 

Stirs  to  the  voice  of  everlasting  sleep. 

— Siegfried  Sassoon 


THE  FINAL  SPURT 

From  Reynard,  the  Fox* 

At  the  sixth  green  field  came  the  long  slow  climb 

To  the  Mourne  End  Wood  as  old  as  time, 

Yew  woods  dark,  where  they  cut  for  bows, 

Oak  woods  green  with  the  mistletoes, 

Dark  woods  evil,  but  burrowed  deep 

With  a  brock's  earth  strong,  where  a  fox  might  sleep. 

He  saw  his  point  on  the  heaving  hill, 

He  had  failing  flesh  and  a  reeling  will, 

He  felt  the  heave  of  the  hill  grow  stiff, 

He  saw  black  woods,  which  would  shelter — If — 

*  From  Reynard  the  Fox,  by  John  Masefield.     Used  by  special  per- 
mission of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


THE  COUNTRY  73 

Nothing  else,  but  the  steepening  slope, 

And  a  black  line  nodding,  a  line  of  hope 

The  line  of  the  yews  on  the  long  slope's  brow. 

A  mile,  three-quarters,  a  half-mile  now. 

A  quarter-mile,  but  the  hounds  had  viewed 

They  yelled  to  have  him  this  side  the  wood, 

Robin  capped  them,  Tom  Dansey  steered  them 

With  a  "Yooi,  Yooi,  Yooi,"  Bill  Ridden  cheered  them, 

Then  up  went  hackles  as  Shall erer  led, 

"Mob  him,"  cried  Ridden,  "the  wood's  ahead. 

Turn  him,  damn  it;   Yooi,  beauties,  beat  him, 

0  God,  let  them  get  him;  let  them  eat  him. 

O  God,"  said  Ridden,  "I'll  eat  him  stewed, 

If  you'll  let  us  get  him  this  side  the  wood." 

But  the  pace,  uphill,  made  a  horse  like  stone, 

The  pack  went  wild  up  the  hill  alone. 

Three  hundred  yards,  and  the  worst  was  past, 

The  slope  was  gentler  and  shorter-grassed, 

The  fox  saw  the  bulk  of  the  woods  grow  tall 

On  the  brae  ahead  like  a  barrier-wall. 

He  saw  the  skeleton  trees  show  sky, 

And  the  yew  trees  darken  to  see  him  die, 

And  the  line  of  the  woods  go  reeling  black; 

There  was  hope  in  the  woods,  and  behind,  the  pack. 

Two  hundred  yards,  and  the  trees  grew  taller, 
Blacker,  blinder,  as  hope  grew  smaller, 
Cry  seemed  nearer,  the  teeth  seemed  gripping 
Pulling  him  back,  his  pads  seemed  slipping. 
He  was  all  one  ache,  one  gasp,  one  thirsting, 
Heart  on  his  chest-bones,  beating,  bursting, 
The  hounds  were  gaining  like  spotted  pards 
And  the  wood-hedge  still  was  a  hundred  yards. 


74  MODERN  VERSE 

The  wood  hedge  black  was  a  two  year,  quick 
Cut-and-laid  that  had  sprouted  thick 
Thorns  all  over,  and  strongly  plied, 
"With  a  clean  red  ditch  on  the  take-off  side. 

He  saw  it  now  as  a  redness,  topped 

With  a  wattle  of  thorn-work  spiky  cropped, 

Spiky  to  leap  on,  stiff  to  force, 

No  safe  jump  for  a  failing  horse, 

But  beyond  it,  darkness  of  yews  together, 

Dark  green  plumes  over  soft  brown  feather, 

Darkness  of  wroods  where  scents  were  blowing 

Strange  scents,  hot  scents,  of  wild  things  going. 

Scents  that  might  draw  these  hounds  away. 

So  he  ran,  ran,  ran  to  that  clean  red  clay. 

Still,  as  he  ran,  his  pads  slipped  back, 
All  his  strength  seemed  to  draw  the  pack, 
The  trees  drew  over  him  dark  like  Norus, 
He  was  over  the  ditch  and  at  the  thorns. 

He  thrust  at  the  thorns,  which  would  not  yield. 
He  leaped,  but  fell,  in  sight  of  the  field, 
The  hounds  went  wild  as  they  saw  him  fall, 
The  fence  stood  stiff  like  a  Buck's  flint  wall. 

He  gathered  himself  for  a  new  attempt, 
His  life  before  was  an  old  dream  dreamt, 
All  that  he  was  was  a  blown  fox  quaking, 
Jumping  at  thorns  too  stiff  for  breaking, 
"While  over  the  grass  in  crowd,  in  cry, 
Came  the  grip  teeth  grinning  to  make  him  die, 
The  eyes  intense,  dull,  smoldering  red. 
The  fell  like  a  ruff  round  each  keen  head, 


THE  COUNTRY  75 

The  pace  like  fire,  and  scarlet  men 
Galloping,  yelling,  "Yooi,  eat  him,  then." 
He  gathered  himself,  he  leaped,  he  reached 
The  top  of  the  hedge  like  a  fish-boat  beached. 
He  steadied  a  second   and  then  leaped  down 
To  the  dark  of  the  wood  where  bright  things  drown. 

— John  Masefield 


THE  HORSE  THIEF 

There  he  moved,  cropping  the  grass  at  the  purple  canyon's 

lip. 
His   mane   was   mixed   with    the   moonlight    that  silvered 

his  snow-white  side, 
For  the  moon  sailed  out  of  a  cloud  with  the  wake  of  a  spectral 

ship. 

I  crouched  and  I  crawled  on  my  belly,  my  lariat  coil  looped 
wide. 

Dimly  and  dark  the  mesas  broke  on  the  starry  sky. 

A  pall  covered  every  color  of  their  gorgeous  glory  at  noon. 
I  smelt  the  yucca  and  mesquite,  and  stifled  my  heart's  quick 

cry, 

And  wormed  and  crawled  on  my  belly  to  where  he  moved 
against  the  moon ! 

Some  Moorish  barb  was  that  mustang's  sire.     His  lines  were 

beyond  all  wonder. 

From  the  prick  of  his  ears  to  the  flow  of  his  tail  he  ached  in 
my  throat  and  eyes 


76  MODERN  VERSE 

Steel   and   velvet   grace!     As   the    prophet   says,    God   had 

"clothed  his  neck  with  thunder". 

Oh,  marvelous  with  the  drifting  cloud  he  drifted  across  the- 
skies ! 

And  then  I  was  near  at  hand— crouched,  and  balanced,  and 

cast  the  coil ; 
And   the   moon   was   smothered   in   cloud,    and   the    rope 

through  my  hands  with  a  rip  ! 
But  somehow  I  gripped  and  clung,  with  the  blood  in  my  brain 

aboil, — 

With  a  turn  round  the  rugged  tree-stump  there  on  the 
purple  canyon's  lip. 

Right  into  the  stars  he  reared  aloft,  his  red  eye  rolling  and 

raging. 
He  whirled  and  sunfished  and  lashed,  and  rocked  the  earth 

to  thunder  and  flame. 
He  squealed  like  a  regular  devil  horse.     I  was  haggard  and 

spent  and  aging — 

Roped  clean,  but  almost  storming  clear,  his  fury  too  fierce 
to  tame. 

And  I  cursed  myself  for  a  tenderfoot  moon-dazzled  to  play 

the  part, 
But  I  was  doubly  desperate  then,  with  the  posse  pulled  out 

from  town, 
Or  I  'd  never  have  tried  it.     I  only  knew  I  must  get  a  mount 

and  a  start. 
The  filly  had  snapped  her  foreleg  short.     I  had  had  to  shoot 

her  down. 

So  there  he  struggled  and  strangled,   and  I  snubbed  him 

around  the  tree. 
Nearer,  a  little  nearer — hoofs  planted,  and  lolling  tongue— 


THE  COUNTRY  77 

Till  a  sudden  slack  pitched  me  backward.     He  reared  right 

on  top  of  me. 

Mother  of   God — that   moment!     He  missed  me  ...  and 
up  I  swung. 

Somehow,  gone  daft  completely  and  clawing  a  bunc-b  of  his 

mane, 
As  lie  stumbled  and  tripped  in  the  lariat,  there  1  was — up 

and  astride. 
And  cursing  for  seven  counties!  And  the  mustang?     Just 

insane! 

Crack-bang !  went  the  rope ;  we  cannoned  off  the  tree — then 
— gods,  that  ride! 

A  rocket— that's  all,  a  rocket!     I  dug  with  my  teeth  and 

nails. 
Why,  we  never  hit  even  the  high  spots  (though  I  hardly 

remember  things), 
But  I  heard  a  monstrous  booming  like  a  thunder  of  flapping 

sails 

When  he  spread— well,  call  me  a  liar! — when  he  spread 
those  wings,  those  wings ! 

So   white   that  my  eyes  were  blinded,   thick-feathered   and 

wide  unfurled 
They  beat  the  air  into  billows.    We  sailed,  and  the  earth 

was  gone. 

Canyon  and  desert  and  mesa  withered  below,  with  the  world. 
And  then  I  knew  that  mustang;  for  I — was  Bellerophon ! 

Yes,  glad  as  the  Greek,  and  mounted  on  a  horse  of  the  elder 

gods, 
With   never   a   magic   bridle   or    a   fountain-mirror   nigh! 


78  MODERN  VERSE 

My  chaps  and  spurs  and  holster  must  have  looked  it?    What's 

the  odds  ? 
I'd  a  leg  over  lightning  and  thunder,  careering  across  the 

sky! 

And  forever  streaming  before  me,  fanning  my  forehead  cool, 

Flowed  a  mane  of  molten  silver;  and  just  before  my  thighs 

(As    I    gripped    his    velvet-muscled    ribs,    while    I    cursed 

myself  for  a  fool), 

The  steady  pulse  of  those  pinions — their  wonderful  fall  and 
rise! 

The  bandanna  I  bought  in  Bowie  blew  loose  and  whipped 

from  my  neck. 
My  shirt  was  stuck  to  my  shoulders  and   ribboning  out 

behind. 
The  stars  were  dancing,  wheeling  and  glancing,  dipping  with 

smirk  and  beck. 

The  clouds  were  flowing,  dusking  and  glowing.    We  rode  a 
roaring  wind. 

We  soared  through  the  silver  starlight  to  knock  at  the  planets' 

gates. 

New  shimmering  constellations  came  whirling  into  our  ken. 
Red  stars  and  green  and  golden  swung  out  of  the  void  that 

waits 

For  man's  great  last  adventure;  the  Signs  took  shape — 
and  then 

I  knew  the  lines  of  that  Centaur  the  moment  I  saw  him  come ! 
The  musical-box  of  the  heavens  all  around  us  rolled  to  a 

tune 
That  tinkled  and  chimed  and  trilled  with  silver  sounds  that 

struck  you  dumb, 

As  if  some  archangel  were  grinding  out  the  music  of  the 
moon. 


THE  COUNTRY  79 

Melody-drunk  on  the  Milky  Way,  as  we  swept  and  soared 

hilarious, 
Full  in  our  pathway,  sudden  he  stood — the  Centaur  of  the 

Stars, 
Flashing  from  head  and  hoofs  and  breast !     I  knew  him  for 

Sagittarius. 

He  reared  and  bent  and  drew  his  bow.     He  crouched  as» 
a  boxer  spars. 

Flung  back  on  his  haunches,  weird  he  loomed — then  leapt — 

and  the  dim  void  lightened. 
Old  White  Wings  shied  and  swerved  aside,  and  fled  from 

the  splendor-shod. 
Through  a  flashing  welter  of  worlds  we  charged.     I  knew 

why  my  horse  was  frightened. 

He  had  two  faces — a  dog's  and  a  man's —  that  Babylonian 
god! 

Also,  he  followed  us  real  as  fear.     Ping !  went  an  arrow  past. 
My   broncho    buck-jumped,    humping   high.     We   plunged 

...  I  guess  that's  all! 
I  lay  on  the  purple  canyon's  lip,  when  I  opened  my  eyes  at 

last — 

Stiff  and  sore  and  my  head  like  a  drum,  but  I  broke  no 
bones  in  the    fall. 

So  you  know — and  now  you  may  string  me  up.     Such  was 

the  way  you  caught  me. 
Thank  you  for  letting  me  tell  it  straight,  though  you  never 

could  greatly  care. 
For  I  took  a  horse  that  wasn't  mine!  .  .  .    But  there's  one 

the  heavens  brought  me, 

And  I'll  hang  right  happy,  because  I  know  he  is  waiting 
for  me  up  there. 


80  MODERN  VERSE 

From  creamy  muzzle  to  cannon-bone,  by  God,  he's  a  peerless 

wonder ! 
He  is  steel  and  velvet  and  furnace-fire,  and  death's  su- 

premest  prize; 
And  never  again  shall  be  roped  on  earth  that  neck  that  is 

"clothed  with  thunder"  .  .  . 

String  me  up,  Dave !     Go  dig  my  grave !     /  rode  him  across 
the  skies! 

— William  Rose  Benet 


WAR 


THE  EETUEN  * 

He  went,  and  he  was  gay  to  go ; 
And  I  smiled  on  him  as  he  went. 
My  son — 'twas  well  he  couldn't  know 
My  darkest  dread,  nor  what  it  meant — 

Just  what  it  meant  to  smile  and  smile 
And  let  my  son  go  cheerily — 
My  son  .  .  .  and  wondering  all  the  while 
What  stranger  would  come  back  to  me. 

— Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


THE  KOAD  OF  THE  REFUGEES  * 

Listen  to  the  tramping !     Oh,  God  of  pity,  listen ! 

Can  we  kneel  at  prayer,  sleep  all  unmolested, 
While  the  echo  thunders? — God  of  pity,  listen! 

Can  we  think  of  prayer — or  sleep — so  arrested? 

Million  upon  million  fleeing  feet  in  passing 

Trample  down  our  prayers — trample  down  our  sleeping; 

How  the  patient  roads  groan  beneath  the  massing 
Of  the  feet  in  going,  bleeding,  running,  creeping! 

*  From  Collected  Poems,  by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson.     Used  by  special 
permission  of  The  Macinillan  Company,  publishers. 

*  From  The  Sad  Years,  by  Dora  Sigerson.  copyright,  1918,  George  H. 
Doran  Company,  publishers. 

83 


84 


Clank  of  iron  shoe,  unshod  hooves  of  cattle, 

Pad  of  roaming  hound,  creak  of  wheel  in  turning, 

Clank  of  dragging  chain,  harness  ring  and  rattle, 
Groan  of  breaking  beam,  crash  of  roof-tree  burning. 

Listen  to  the  tramping!     God  of  love  and  pity! 

Million  upon  million  fleeing  feet  in  passing 
Driven  by  the  war  out  of  field  and  city, 

How  the  sullen  road  echoes  to  the  massing! 

Little  feet  of  children,  running,  leaping,  lagging, 
Toiling  feet  of  women,  wounded,  weary  guiding, 

Slow  feet  of  the  aged,  stumbling,  halting,  flagging. 
Strong  feet  of  the  men  loud  in  passion  striding. 

Hear  the  lost  feet  straying,  from  the  roadwray  slipping 
They  will  walk  no  longer  in  this  march  appalling; 

Hear  the  sound  of  rain  dripping,  dripping,  diipping, 
Is  it  rain  or  tears?    What,  0  God,  is  falling? 

Hear  the  flying  feet!     Lord  of  love  and  pity! 

Crushing  down  our  prayers,  tramping  down  our  sleeping, 
Driven  by  the  war  out  of  field  and  city, 

Million  upon  million,   running,  bleeding,   creeping. 

— Dora  Sigerson 


THE  BOMBARDMENT  * 

Slowly,  without    force,  the   rain   drops  into  the  city.     It 
stops  a  moment   on   the   carved   head   of   Saint   John,   then 

*  From  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts,  by  Amy  Lowell.     Used  by  special 
permission  of  The  Macmillan    Company,   publishers. 


WAR  85 

slides  on  again,  slipping  and  trickling  over  his  stone  cloak. 
It  splashes  from  the  lead  conduit  of  a  gargoyle,  and  falls 
from  it  in  turmoil  on  the  stones  in  the  Cathedral  square. 
"Where  are  the  people,  and  why  does  the  fretted  steeple  sweep 
about  in  the  sky?  Boom!  The  sound  swings  against  the 
rain.  Boom,  again !  After  it,  only  water  rushing  in  the 
gutters,  and  the  turmoil  from  the  spout  of  the  gargoyle. 
Silence.  Eipples  and  mutters.  Boom! 

The  room  is  damp,  but  warm.  Little  flashes  swarm  about 
from  the  firelight.  The  lusters  of  the  chandelier  are  bright, 
and  clusters  of  rubies  leap  in  the  bohemian  glasses  on  the 
etagcre.  Her  hands  are  restless,  but  the  white  masses  of  her 
hair  are  quite  still.  Boom!  Will  it  never  cease  to  torture, 
this  iteration  !  Boom !  The  vibration  shatters  a  glass  on  the 
etagcre.  It  lies  there,  formless  and  glowing,  with  all  its  crim- 
son gleams  shot  out  of  pattern,  spilled,  flowing  red,  blood-red. 
A  th;n  hell -note  pricks  through  the  silence.  A  door  creaks. 
The  old  lady  speaks :  "Victor,  clear  away  that  broken  glass." 
"Alas!  Madame,  the  bohemian  glass!"  "Yes,  Victor,  one 
hundred  years  ago  my  father  brought  it —  Boom !  The 
room  shakes,  the  servitor  quakes.  Another  goblet  shivers  and 
breaks.  Boom ! 

It  rustles  at  the  window-pane,  the  smooth,  streaming  rain, 
and  he  is  shut  within  its  clash  and  murmur.  Inside  is  his 
Candle,  his  table,  his  ink,  his  pen,  and  his  dreams.  He  is 
thinking,  and  the  walls  are  pierced  with  beams  of  sunshine, 
slipping  through  young  green.  A  fountain  tosses  itself  up 
at  the  blue  sky,  and  through  the  spattered  water  in  the  basin 
he  can  see  copper  carp,  lazily  floating  among  cold  leaves.  A 
wind-harp  in  a  cedar-tree  grieves  and  whispers,  and  words 
blow  into  his  brain,  bubbled,  iridescent,  shooting  up  like  flowers 
of  fire,  higher  and  higher.  Boom !  The  flame-flowers  snap 


86  MODERN  VERSE 

on  their  slender  stems.  The  fountain  rears  up  in  long  broken 
spears  of  dishevelled  water  and  flattens  into  the  earth.  Boom ! 
And  there  is  only  the  room,  the  table,  the  candle,  and  the 
sliding  rain.  Again,  Boom  ! — Boom  ! — Boom !  He  stuffs  his 
fingers  into  his  ears.  He  sees  corpses,  and  cries  out  in  fright. 
Boom!  It  is  night,  and  they  are  shelling  the  city!  Boom! 
Boom! 

A  child  wakes  and  is  afraid,  and  weeps  in  the  darkness. 
What  has  made  the  bed  shake?  "Mother,  where  are  you? 
I  am  awake."  "Hush,  my  darling,  I  am  here."  "But, 
Mother,  something  so  queer  happened,  the  room  shook." 
Boom!  "Oh!  What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter?"  Boom! 
"Where  is  Father?  I  am  so  afraid.1'"  Boom!  The  child 
sobs  and  shrieks.  The  house  trembles  and  creaks.  Boom ! 

Retorts,  globes,  tubes  and  phials  lie  shattered.  All  his 
trials  oozing  across  the  floor.  The  life  that  was  his  choosing, 
lonely,  urgent,  goaded  by  a  hope,  all  gone.  A  weary  man  in 
a  ruined  laboratory,  that  is  his  story.  Boom!  Gloom  and 
ignorance,  and  the  jig  of  drunken  brutes.  Disease  like  snakes 
crawling  over  the  earth,  leaving  trails  of  slime.  Wails  from 
people  burying  their  dead.  Through  the  window,  he  can  see 
the  rocking  steeple.  A  ball  of  fire  falls  on  the  lead  of  the  roof, 
and  the  sky  tears  apart  on  a  spike  of  flame.  Up  the  spire, 
behind  the  lacings  of  stone,  zigzagging  in  and  out  of  the  carved 
tracings,  squirms  the  fire.  It  spouts  like  yellow  wheat  from 
the  gargoyles,  coils  round  the  head  of  Saint  John,  and  aureoles 
him  in  light.  It  leaps  into  the  night  and  hisses  against  the 
ram.  The  Cathedral  is  a  burning  stain  on  the  white,  wet 
night. 

Boom  t  The  Cathedral  is  a  torch,  and  the  houses  next  to  it 
begin  to  scorch.  Boom !  The  bohemian  glass  on  the  etagere 


WAR  87 

is  no  longer  there.  Boom!  A  stalk  of  flame  sways  against 
the  red  damask  curtains.  The  old  lady  cannot  walk.  She 
watches  the  creeping  stalk  and  counts.  Boom! — Boom! — 
Boom ! 

The  poet  rushes  into  the  street,  and  the  rain  wraps  him  in 
a  sheet  of  silver.  But  it  is  threaded  with  gold  and  powdered 
with  scarlet  beads.  The  city  burns.  Quivering,  spearing, 
thrusting,  lapping,  streaming,  run  the  flames.  Over  roofs  and 
walls  and  shops,  and  stalls.  Smearing  its  gold  on  the  sky, 
the  fire  dances,  lances  itself  through  the  doors,  and  lisps  and 
chuckles  along  the  floors. 

The  child  wakes  again  and  screams  at  the  yellow  petalled 
flower  flickering  at  the  window.  The  little  red  lips  of  flame 
creep  along  the  ceiling  beams. 

The  old  man  sits  among  his  broken  experiments  and  looks 
at  the  burning  Cathedral.  Now  the  streets  are  swarming  with 
people.  They  seek  shelter  and  crowd  into  the  cellar.  They 
shout  and  call,  and  over  all,  slowly  and  without  force,  the 
rain  drops  into  the  city.  Boom!  And  the  steeple  crashes 
down  among  the  people.  Boom !  Boom,  again !  The  water 
rushes  along  the  gutters.  The  fire  roars  and  mutters.  Boom ! 

— Amy  Lowell 


THE  OLD  HOUSES  OF  FLANDERS 

The  old  houses  of  Flanders, 

They  watch  by  the  high  cathedrals ; 


88  MODERN  VERSE 

They  overtop  the  high  town-halls ; 

They  have  eyes,  mournful,  tolerant,  and  sardonic,   for  the 

ways  of  men 
In  the  high,  white,  tiled  gables. 

The  rain  and  the  night  have  settled  down  on  Flanders; 
It  is  all  wet  darkness;  you  can  see  nothing. 

Then  those  old  eyes,  mournful,  tolerant,  and  sardonic, 
Look  at  great,  sudden,  red  lights, 
Look  upon  the  shades  of  the  cathedrals; 
And  the  golden  rods  of  the  illuminated  rain, 
For  a  second  .  .  . 

And  those  old  eyes, 

Very  old  eyes  that  have  watched  the  ways  of  men  for  man} 

generations, 
Close  forever. 

The  high,  white  shoulders  of  the  gables 
Slouch  together  for  a  consultation, 

Slant  drunkenly  over  in  the  lee  of  the  flaming  cathedrals. 
They  are  no  more,  the  old  houses  of  Flanders. 

— Ford  Madox  Hueffer 


RHEIMS  CATHEDRAL— 1914 

A  winged  death  has  smitten  dumb  thy  bells, 
And  poured  them  molten  from  thy  tragic  towers; 
Now  are  the  windows  dust  that  were  thy  flowers 
Patterned  like  frost,  petaled  like  asphodels. 
Gone  are  the  angels  and  the  archangels. 


WAR  89 

The  saints,  the  little  lamb  above  thy  door, 
The  shepherd  Christ !     They  are  not,  any  more, 
Save  in  the  soul  where  exiled  beauty  dwells. 
But  who  has  heard  within  thy  vaulted  gloom 
That  old  divine  insistence  of  the  sea, 
When  music  flows  along  the  sculptured  stone 
In  tides  of  prayer,  for  him  thy  windows  bloom 
Like  faithful  sunset,  warm  immortally! 
Thy  bells  live  on,  and  Heaven  is  in  their  tone ! 

— Grace  Hazard  Conkling 


(14th  November  1914) 

Lest  the  young  soldiers  be  strange  in  Heaven, 

God  bids  the  old  soldier  they  all  adored 
Come  to  Him  and  wait  for  them,  clean,  new-shriven, 

A  happy  door-keeper  in  the  House  of  the  Lord. 

Lest  it  abash  them,  the  great  new  splendor, 
Lest  they  affright  them,  the  new  robes  clean, 

God  sets  an  old  face  there,  long-tried  and  tender, 
A  word  and  a  hand-clasp  as  they  troop  in. 

My  boys!  he  welcomes  them  and  Heaven  is  homely; 

He,  their  great  Captain  in  days  gone  o'er. 
Dear  is  the  face  of  a  friend,  honest  and  comely, 

As  they  come  home  from  the  war  and  he  at  the  door. 

— Katherine  Tynan 


9(v  MODERN  VERSE 


FUNK 

When  your  marrer  bone  seems  'oiler, 

And  you're  glad  you  ain't  no  taller, 

And  you're  all  a-shakin'  like  you  'ad  the  chills; 

When  your  skin  creeps  like  a  pullet's, 

And  you're  duckin'  all  the  bullets, 

And  you're  green  as  gorgonzola  round  the  gills 

When  your  legs  seem  made  of  jelly, 

And  you're  squeamish  in  the  belly, 

And  you  want  to  turn  about  and  do  a  bunk : 

For  Gawd's  sake,  kid,  don't  show  it! 

Don't  let  your  mateys  know  it — 

You  're  just  sufferin '  from  funk,  funk,  funk. 

Of  course  there's  no  denyin' 

That  it  ain't  so  easy  tryin' 

To  grin  and  grip  your  rifle  by  the  butt, 

When  the  'ole  world  rips  asunder, 

And  you  sees  your  pal  go  under, 

As  a  bunch  of  shrapnel  sprays  'im  on  the  nut  r 

I  admit  it's    'ard  contrivin' 

When  you  'ears  the  shells  arrivin', 

To  discover  you're  a  bloomin'  bit  o'  spunk; 

But  my  lad,  you've  got  to  do  it, 

And  your  God  will  see  you  through  it, 

For  wot  'E  'ates  is  funk,  funk,  funk. 

So  stand  up,  son;  look  gritty, 
And  just  'um  a  lively  ditty, 
And  only  be  afraid  to  be  afraid ; 
Just   'old  yer  rifle  steady, 


WAR  91 

And  'ave  yer  bay 'nit  ready, 

For  that 's  the  way  good  soldier-men  is  made. 

And  if  you  'as  to  die, 

As  it  sometimes  'appens,  why, 

Far  better  die  a  'ero  than  a  skunk; 

A-doin'  of  yer  bit, 

And  so — to  'ell  with  it, 

There  ain't  no  bloomin'  funk,  funk,  funk. 

— Robert  W.  Service 


THE  DEVOUT  HIGHLANDER  * 


Listen,  laddies:     Gin  ye  go  into  the  battle,  be  devout; 
Dinna  trust  to  thews  an'  sinews  or  yer  sin  wull  find  ye  out; 
Dinna  think  yoursel'   omnipotent — gie  Providence   His   due 
An'  then  fight  fer  a'  yer  worth  because  the  Lord  expects  ye  to. 

An'  ye  maun  pray,  pray, 
Lord  defend  the  right; 

Pray,  pray, 

Before  ye  start  to  fight ; 
Dinna  waver  at  a  trifle 
(Use  the  butt-end  o'  yer  rifle). 

Ask  the  Lord  to  gie  ye  strength  wherewith  to  smite, 
smite,  smite, 

AN'  PIT  YER  BACK  INTO  IT,  LADDIE,   GIN  YE  SMITE! 


*  From  Songs  of  the  Shrapnel  Shell,  by  Captain  Cyril  Morton  Home 
Copyright,  1916,  1918,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


92  MODERN  VERSE 


II 

When  the  Germans  came  upon  us,  said  me  mither — ''Donald, 

Boy, 

Ye '11  no  look  upon  this  fightin'  as  a  pastime  or  a  joy." 
Sez  I — "Mither,  I'm  for  prayin'  an'  for  fightin'  I  am  loath, 
But  the  Lord  Almighty  wills  it  that  I'll  do  a  bit  o'  both!" 

But  ye  maun  pray,  pray — etc. 


Ill 

I  remember  out  at  Wipers  I  obsarved  a  German  lad 
Takkin'  pot  shots  at  our  snipers — but  his  aim  was  awfu'  bad — 
So  I  prayed  the  Lord  to  help  me,  found  the  range  and  drew 

a  bead, 
An'  the  Lord  was  verra  kind  because  the  German  laddie's 

de'ed. 

So  ye  maun  pray,  pray — etc. 


IV 

There  was  muckle  lusty  fightin'  round  the  Yser  River  banks, 
An'  the  German  dum-dum  bullets  caused  confusion  i'   the 

ranks ; 
It  was  ihen,  through  force  o'  circumstance  (as  feyther  used 

to  say) 
I  felt  justified  i'  feeling  I  had  rayther  fight  than  pray! 

But  ye  maun  pray,  pray — etc. 


WAE  93 

V 

At  La  Bassey  I  was  singled — while  we  wallowed  i'  the  mud — 
By  a  German  unbeliever  who  was  thirst  in'  for  me  blood, 
So  I  turned  before  retreatin'  frae  the  trench,  an'  made  a  stand 
An'  I  pierced  him  thro'  the  stomach  as  the  Lord  had  fully 
planned. 

So  ye  maun  pray,  pray — etc. 

VI 

This  is  no  a  lecture,  laddies ;  ye  can  only  do  yer  best- 
Draw  a  bead   an'   pull  the  trigger,  an'   the   Lord  \vull  do 

the  rest. 

Ye  maun  simply  try  to  follow  out  the  teachin'  c'  the  church, 
An'  since  the  Lord  is  on  yer  side  ye  mauna  leave  Him  i'  the 

lurch . 

But  ye  maun  pray,  pray, 
Lord  defend  the  right; 

Pray,  pray, 

Before  ye  start  to  fight ; 
Dinna  waver  at  a  trifle 
(Use  the  butt-end  o'  yer  rifle). 

Ask  the  Lord  to  gie  ye  strength  wherewith  to  smite, 
smite,  smite, 

AN'  PIT  YER  BACK  INTO  IT,  LADDIE,   GIX   YE   SMITE! 

— Cyril  Morton  Home 


94 


THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD  * 
(Seen  from  a  Train) 

I  saw  the  spires  of  Oxford 

As  I  was  passing  by, 
The   gray   spires  of   Oxford 

Against   a  pearl-gray   sky , 
My  heart  was  with  the  Oxford  men 

"Who   went   abroad   to   die. 

The  years  go  fast  in  Oxford, 

The  golden  years  and  gay; 
The  hoary  colleges  look  down 

On  careless  boys  at  play, 
But  when  the  bugles  sounded — War! 

They  put  their  games  away. 

They  left  the  peaceful  river, 

The  cricket  field,  the  quad, 
The  shaven  lawns  of  Oxford 

To  seek  a  bloody  sod. 
They  gave  their  merry  youth  away 

For  country  and  for  God. 

God  rest  you,  happy  gentlemen, 
Who  laid  your  good  lives  down, 

Who  took  the  khaki  and  the  gun 
Instead  of  cap  and  gown. 

God  bring  you  to  a  fairer  place 
Than  even  Oxford  town. 

—  W.  M.  Letts 

*  Taken  by  permission  from  The  Spires  of  Oxford,  by  Winifred  M, 
Letts,  copyrighted  by  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.,  New  York, 


WAR  95 


THE  SOLDIER 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me : 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  forever  England.     There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England  given 
Her  sights  and  sounds ;  dreams  happy  as  her  day ; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends ;  and  gentleness, 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

— Rupert  Brooke 


I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  some  disputed  barricade, 
"When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 
And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air — 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 
And  lead  me  into  His  dark  land 


96  MODERN  VERSE 

And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath- 
It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hil^ 
When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 
And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

God  knows  'twere  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  Love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear  .  .  . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

— Alan  Seeger 


IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS  * 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 

Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 
That  mark  our  place ;  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly 

Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  Dead.     Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 

*  From    In   Flanders   Fields,   by   John   Me  Crae.     Courtesy  of  G.   P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  Publishers,  New  York  and  London. 


WAR 

Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 

In  Flanders  fields. 
Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe : 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  torch;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 
If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
"We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields. 

— John  McCrae 


THE  DEAD  TO  THE  LIVING 

O  you  that  still  have  rain  and  sun, 
Kisses  of  children  and  of  wife, 
And  the  good  earth  to  tread  upon, 
And  the  mere  sweetness  that  is  life, 
Forget  not  us,  who  gave  all  these 
For  something  dearer,  and  for  you. 
Think  in  what  cause  we  crossed  the  seas'. 
Remember,  he  who  fails  the  Challenge 
Fails  us,  too. 

Now  in  the  hour  that  shows  the  strong — 
The  soul  no  evil  powers  affray — 
Drive  straight  against  embattled  wrong! 
Faith  knows  but  one,  the  hardest,  way. 
Endure;  the  end  is  worth  the  throe, 
Give,  give,  and  dare;  and  again  dare! 
On,  to  that  Wrong's  great  overthrow. 
We  are  with  you,  of  you ;  we  the  pain 
And  victory  share. 

— Laurence  Binyon 


MODERN  VERSE 


COUNTER-ATTACK  * 

We'd  gained  our  first  objective  hours  before 
While  dawn  broke  like  a  face  with  blinking  eyes, 
Pallid,  unshaven  and  thirsty,  blind  with  smoke, 
Things  seemed  all  right  at  first.    We  held  their  line, 
With  bombers  posted,   Lewis   guns  well   placed, 
And  clink  of  shovels  deepening  the  shallow  trench. 

The  place  was  rotten  with  dead ;  green  clumsy  legs 
High-booted,  sprawled  and  grovelled  along  the  saps; 
And  trunks,  face  downward,  in  the  sucking  mud, 
Wallowed  like  trodden  sand-bags  loosely  filled; 
And  naked  sodden  buttocks,  mats  of  hair, 
Bulged,  clotted  heads  slept  in  the  plastering  slime. 
And  then  the  rain  began, — the  jolly  old  rain! 

A  yawning  soldier  knelt  against  the  bank, 
Staring  across  the  morning  blear  with  fog ; 
He  wondered  when  the  Allemands  would  get  busy; 
And  then,  of  course,  they  started  with  five-nines 
Traversing,  sure  as  fate,  and  never  a  dud. 
Mute  in  the  clamor  of  shells  he  watched  them  burst 
Spouting  dark  earth  and  wire  gusts  from  hell, 
While  posturing  giants  dissolved  in  drifts  of  smoke. 
He  crouched  and  flinched,  dizzy  with  galloping  fear, 
Sick  for  escape, — loathing  the  strangled  horror 
And  butcheied,  frantic  gestures  of  the  dead. 


•Taken   by  permission   from    Counter-Attack,   by   Siegfried   Sassoor. 
copyrighted  by  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.,  New  York. 


WAR  99 

An  officer  came  blundering  down  the  trench: 
"Stand-to  and  man  the  fire-step!"     On  he  went  .  .  . 
Gasping  and  bawling.     "Fire-step  .  .  .  counter-attack!" 

Then   the  haze  lifted.     Bombing  on  the  right 

Down  the  old  sap :  machine-guns  on  the  left ; 

And  stumbling  figures   looming    out   in   front. 

"0  Christ,  they're  coming  at  us  !"     Bullets  spat, 

And  he  remembered  his  rifle  .  .  .  rapid  fire  .  .  . 
And  started  blazing  wildly  .  .  .  then  a  bang 
Crumpled  and  spun  him  sideways,  knocked  him  out 
To  grunt  and  wriggle :  none  heeded  him ;  he  choked 
And  fought  the  flapping  veils  of  smothering  gloom, 
Lost  in  a  blurred  confusion  of  yells  and  groans  .  .  . 
Down,  and  down,  and  down,  he  sank  and  drowned, 
Bleeding  to  death.     The  counter-attack  had  failed. 

— Siegfried  Sassoon 


NOON* 

(i  FROM  "BATTLE") 

It  is  midday :  the  deep  trench  glares  .  .  . 
A  buzz  and  blaze  of  flies.  .  .  . 
The  hot  wind  puffs  the  giddy  airs.  .  .  . 
The  great  sun  rakes  the  skies. 

No  sound  in  all  the  stagnant  trench 
Where  forty  standing  men 

*  Reprinted  with  permission  from  Ardours  and  Endurances,  by  Roben 
Nichols.     Copyright,  1917    Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


100  MODERN  VERSE 

Endure  the  sweat  and  grit  and  stench, 
Like  cattle  in  a  pen. 

Sometimes  a  sniper's  bullet  whirs 
Or  twangs  the  whining  wire ; 
Sometimes  a  soldier  sighs  and  stirs 
As  in  hell's  frying  fire. 

From  out  a  high  cool  cloud  descends 

An  aeroplane's  far  moan.  .  .  . 

The  sun  strikes  down,  the  thin  cloud  rends  .  <.  ,- 

The  black  speck  travels  on. 

And  sweating,  dizzied,  isolate 

In  the  hot  trench  beneath, 

We  bide  the  next  shrewd  move  of  fate 

Be  it  of  life  or  death. 

— Robert  Nichols 


TO  LUCASTA  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WAR— FOB 
THE  FOURTH  TIME 

It  doesn't  matter  what's  the  cause 

What  wrong  they  say  we're  righting, 
A  curse  for  treaties,  bonds  and  laws, 

When  we're  to  do  the  fighting! 
And  since  we  lads  are  proud  and  true, 

What  else  remains  to  do  ? 
Lucasta,  when  to  France  your  man 
Returns  his  fourth  time,  hating  war, 
Yet  laughs  as  calmly  as  he  can 

And  flings  an  oath,  but  says  no  more, 


WAR  101 

That  is  not  courage,  that 's  not  fear — 
Lucasta,  he's  a  Fusilier, 

And  his  pride  keeps  him  here. 

Let  statesmen  bluster,  bark  and  bray, 

And  so  decide  who  started 
This  bloody  war,  and  who's  to  pay, 

But  he  must  be  stout-hearted, 
Make  sit  and  stake  with  quiet  breath, 

Playing  at  cards  with  Death. 
Don't  plume  yourself  he  fights  for  you; 
It  is  no  courage,  love  or  hate, 
But  let  us  do  the  things  we  do ; 

It's  pride  that  makes  the  heart  be  great; 
It  is  not  anger,  no,  nor  fear — 
Lucasta,  he's  a  Fusilier, 

And  his  pride  keeps  him  here. 

— Robert  Graves 


EETREAT  * 

Broken,  bewildered  by  the  long  retreat 
Across  the  stifling  leagues  of  Southern  p'ain. 
Across  the  scorching  leagues  of  trampled  grain, 
Half-stunned,  half-blinded  by  the  trudge  of  feet 
And  dusty  smother  of  the  August  heat, 
He  dreamt  of  flowers  in  an  English  lane, 
Of  hedgerow  flowers  glistening  after  rain — 
All-heal  and  willowherb  and  meadowsweet. 

*  From  Collected  Poems,  by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson.     Used  by  special 
permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


102  MODERN  VERSE 

All-heal  and  willowherb  and  meadowsweet — • 
The  innocent  names  kept  up  a  cool  refrain, 
All-heal  and  willowherb  and  meadowsweet, 
Chiming  and  tinkling  through  his  aching  brain 
Until  he  babbled  as  a  child  again — 
"All-heal  and  willowherb  and  meadowsweet." 

—Wilfrid  W.  Gibson 


NIGHT  IN  MESOPOTAMIA 

A  quiver  in  the  hot  and  breathless  air 

Like  the  faint  frou-frou  of  a  woman's  dress. 

The  restless  sleepers  turn,  their  bodies  bare 

To  this  babe  spirit  of  the  wilderness 

Whose  frail,  yet  welcome  hands  damp  brows  caress — 

Bringer  of  blessed  sleep  dispelling  care — 

Until  the  pipings  of  the  dawn  express 

Another  day  of  blistering  heat  and  glare. 

There,  out  beneath  the  open  starlit  dome 

Come  dreams  that  bloom  and  fade  like  fragile  flowers, 

To  some,  the  simple  cries  of  hearth  and  home, 

To  others,  memories  of  gilded  hours; 

Mayhap  the  fragrance  of  some  Beauty's  bowers, 

Far  out  of  reach  to  wandering  souls  who  roam. 

— A.  J.  E.  Dawson 


WAR  103 


DOES  IT  MATTER?* 

Does  it  matter? — losing  your  leg?  .  .  . 
For  people  will  always  be  kind, 
And  you  need  not  show  that  you  mind 
When  the  others  come  in  after  hunting 
To  gobble  their  muffins  and  eggs. 

Does  it  matter? — losing  your  sight?  .  .  . 
There's  such  splendid  work  for  the  blind; 
And  people  will  always  be  kind, 
As  you  sit  on  the  terrace  remembering 
And  turning  your  face  to  the  light. 

Do  they  matter? — those  dreams  from  the  pit?  .  .  . 

You  can  drink  and  forget  and  be  glad, 

And  people  won't  say  that  you're  mad; 

For  they'll  know  that  you've  fought  for  your  country, 

And  no  one  will  worry  a  bit. 

— Siegfried  Sassoon 


THE  DAWN  PATROL 

Sometimes  I  fly  at  dawn  above  the  sea, 
Where,  underneath,   the   restless   waters  flow — 

Silver,  and  cold,  and  slow. 
Dim  in  the  East  there  burns  a  new-born  sun 
Whose  rosy  gleams  along  the  ripples  run. 

Save  where  the  mist  droops  low, 
Hiding  the  level  loneliness  from  me. 

*  Taken   by   permission    from    Counter- Attack,   by   Siegfried   Sassoon, 
copyrighted  by  E.  P.  Button  &  Co.,  New  York. 


104  MODERN  VERSE 

And  now  appears  beneath  the  milk-white  haze 
A  little  fleet  of  anchored  ships,  which  lie 

In  clustered  company, 

And  seem  as  they  are  yet  fast  bound  by  sleep 
Although  the  day  has  long  begun  to  peep, 

"With  red-inflamed  eye, 
Along  the  still,  deserted  ocean  ways. 

The  fresh,  cold  wind  of  dawn  blows  on  my  face 
As  in  the  sun's  raw  heart  I  swiftly  fly, 

And  watch  the  seas  glide  by. 
Scarce  human  seem  I,  moving  through  the  skies, 
And  far  removed  from  warlike  enterprise — 

Like  some  great  gull  on  high 
Whose  white  and  gleaming  wings  beat  on  through  space 

Then  do  I  feel  with  God  quite,  quite  alone 
High  in  the  virgin  morn,  so  white  and  still 

And  free  from  human  ill : 

My  prayers  transcend  my  feeble  earth -bound  plaints—- 
As  though  I  sang  among  the  happy  Saints 

With  many  a  holy  thrill — 
As  though  the  glowing  sun  were  God's  bright  Throne. 

My  flight  is  done.     I  cross  the  line  of  foam 
That  breaks  around  a  town  of  gray  and  red, 

Whose  streets  and  squares  lie  dead 
Beneath  the  silent  dawn — then  am  I  proud 
That  England's  peace  to  guard  I  am  allowed; — 

Then  bow  my  humble  head 
In  thanks  to  Him  Who  brings  me  safely  home. 

— Paul  Bewsher,  R.  N.  A.  S.,  D.  S.  C. 
LUXEUIL-LES-BAINS,  1917 


WAR  105 


AN  OPEN  BOAT  * 

0  what  is  that  whimpering  there  in  the  darkness? 
"Let  him  lie  in  my  arms.     He  is  breathing,  1  know. 
Look.     I'll  wrap  all  my  hair  round  his  neck." — 

"The  sea's  rising. 
The  boat  must  be  lightened.    He's  dead.    He  must  go." 

gee — quick — by  that  flash,  where  the  bitter  foam  tosses, 
The  cloud  of  white  faces,  in  the  black  open  boat, 

And  the  wild  pleading  woman  that  clasps  her  dead  lover 
And  wraps  her  loose  hair  round  his  breast  and  his  throat. 

"Come,  lady,  he's  dead."    "No,  I  fed  his  heart  beating. 

He's  living,!  know.     But  he's  numbed  with  the  cold. 
Sec,  I'm  wrapping  my  hair  all  around  him  to  warm  him." — 

"No.     We  can't  keep  the  dead,  dear.     Conic,  loosen  your 
hold. 

"Come.     Loosen  your  fingers." — "0  God,  let  me  keep  him!" 
0,  hide  it,  black  night!     Let  the  winds  have  their  way! 

For  there  are  no  voices  or  ghosts  from  that  darkness, 
To  fret  the  bare  seas  at  the  breaking  of  day. 

— Alfred  Noyes 

ADMIRAL  DUGOUT  * 

He  had  done  with  fleets  and  squadrons,  with  the  restless, 

roaming  seas, 
He  had  found  the  quiet  haven  he  desired, 

*  Reprinted  with  permission  from  The  ~Sew  Morning,  by  Alfred  Noyes. 
Copyright,  1919,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 

*  From  Small   Craft,   by   C.   Fox   Smith,   copyright    1919,   George   H. 
Doran  Company,  publishers. 


106  MODERN  VERSE 

And  he  lay  there  to  his  moorings  with  the  dignity  and  ease 

Most  becoming  to  Rear-Admirals  (retired). 
He  was   reared    'mid  "spit   and   polish,"   he   was  bred   to 
"stick  and  string" — 

All  the  things  the  ultra-moderns  never  name; 
But  a  wind  blew  up  to  seaward,  and  it  meant  the  Real  Thing, 

And  he  had  to  slip  his  cable  when  it  came. 

i 

So  he  hied  him  up  to  London,  for  to  hang  about  Whitehall, 

And  he  sat  upon  the  steps  there  soon  and  late ; 
He  importuned  night  and  morning,  he  bombarded  great  and 
small, 

From  messengers  to  Ministers  of  State. 
He  was  like  a  guilty  conscience,  he  was  like  a  ghost  unlaid, 

He  was  like  a  debt  of  which  you  can 't  get  rid, 
Till  the  Powers  that  Be,  despairing,  in  a  fit  of  temper  said, 

"For  the  Lord's  sake  give  him  something" — and  they  did! 

They  commissioned  him  a  trawler  with  a  high  and  raking 
bow, 

Black  and  workmanlike  as  any  pirate  craft, 
With  a  crew  of  steady  seamen  very  handy  in  a  row, 

And  a  brace  of  little  barkers  fore  and  aft. 
And  he  blessed  the  Lord  his  Maker  when  he  faced  the  Noi'th 
Sea  sprays, 

And  exceedingly  extolled  his  lucky  star, 
That  had  given  his  youth  renewal  in  the  evening  of  his  days, 

(With  the  rank  of  Captain  Dugout,  R.N.R.) 

He  is  jolly  as  a  sandboy,  he  is  happier  than  a  king, 

And  his  trawler  is  the  darling  of  his  heart, 
(With  her  cuddy  like  a  cupboard  where  a  kitten  couldn't 
swing. 


WAR  107 

And  a  scent  of  fish  that  simply  won't  depart). 
He  has  found  upon  occasion  sundry  targets  for  his  guns, 

He  could  tell  you  tales  of  mine  and  submarine; 
Oh,  the  holes  he's  in  and  out  of,  and  the  glorious  risks  he  runs 

Turn  his  son   (who's  in  a  Super-Dreadnought)   green. 

He  is  fit  as  any  fiddle,  he  is  hearty,  hale  and  tanned, 

He  is  proof  against  the  coldest  gales  that  blow, 
He  has  never  felt  so  lively  since  he  got  his  first  command, 

(Which  is  rather  more  than  forty  years  ago). 
And  of  all  the  joyful  picnics  of  his  wild  and  wandering 

youth, 

Little  dust-ups  'tween  Taku  and  Zanzibar, 
There  was  none  to  match  the  picnic,  he  declares  in  sober  sooth. 
That  he  has  as  Captain  Dugout,  R.N.R. 

— C.  Fox  Smith 


"THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES"  * 

This  is  the  song  of  the  wind  as  it  came 

Tossing  the  flags  of  the  nations  to  flame: 

I  am  the  breath  of  God.    I  am  His  laughter. 
I  am  Ills  Liberty.     That  is  my  name. 

So  it  descended,  at  night,  on  the  city. 
So  it  went  lavishing  beauty  and  pity, 
Lighting  the  lordliest  street  of  the  world 
With  half  of  the  banners  that  earth  has  unfurled; 
Over  the  lamps  that  are  brighter  than  stars. 
Laughing  aloud  on  its  way  to  the  wars, 

*  Reprinted  with  permission  from  The  New  Morning,  by  Alfred  Nbyes 
Copyright,  1919,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


108  MODERN  VERSE 

Proud  as  America,  sweeping  along 
Death  and  destruction  like  notes  in  a  song, 
Leaping  to  battle  as  man  to  his  mate, 
Joyous  as  God  when  lie  moved  to  create, — 

Never  was  voice  of  a  nation  so  glorious, 
Glad  of  its  cause  and  afire  with  its  fate ! 
Never  did  eagle  on  mightier  pinion 
Tower  to  the  height  of  a  brighter  dominion, 
Kindling  the  hope  of  the  prophets  to  flame. 
Calling  aloud  on  the  deep  as  it  came, 

Cleave  me  a  ivaij  for  an  army  with  banners. 
1  am  Els  Liberty.     That  is  my  name. 

Know  you  the  meaning  of  all  they  are  doing? 
Know  you  the  light  that  their  soul  is  pursuing? 
Know  you  the  might  of  the  world  they  are  making., 
This  nation  of  nations  whose  heart  is  awaking? 
What  is  this  mingling  of  peoples  and  races? 
Look  at  the  wonder  and  joy  in  their  faces! 
Look  how  the  folds  of  the  union  are  spreading! 
Look,  for  the  nations  are  come  to  their  wedding. 
How  shall  the  folk  of  our  tongue  be  afraid  of  it? 
England  was  born  of  it.     England  was  made  of  it, 
Made  of  this  welding  of  tribes  into  one, 
This  marriage  of  pilgrims  that  followed  the  sun! 
Briton  and  Roman  and  Saxon  were  drawn 
By  winds  of  this  Pentecost,  out  of  the  dawn, 
Westward,  to  make  her  one  people  of  many; 
But  here  is  a  union  more  mighty  than  any. 
Know  you  the  soul  of  this  deep  exultation? 
Know  you  the  word  that  goes  forth  to  this  nation? 

/  am  the  breath  of  God.     1  am  His  Liberty. 
Let  there  be  light  over  all  His  creation. 


WAR  109 

Over  this  Continent,  wholly  united, 
They  that  were  foemen  in  Europe  are  plighted. 
Here,  in  a  league  that  our  blindness  and  pride 
Doubted  and  flouted  and  mocked  and  denied, 
Dawns  the  Republic,  the  laughing,  gigantic 
Europe,  united,  beyond  the  Atlantic, 
That  is  America,  speaking  one  tongue, 
Acting  her  epics  before  they  are  sung, 
Driving  her  rails  from  the  palms  to  the  snow, 
Through  States  that  are  greater  than  Emperors  know. 
Forty-eight  States  that  are  empires  in  might, 
But  ruled  by  the  will  of  one  people  to-night, 
Nerved  as  one  body,  with  net-works  of  steel, 
Merging  their  strength  in  the  one  Commonweal, 
Brooking  no  poverty,  mocking  at  Mars, 
Building  their  cities  to  talk  with  the  stars. 
Thriving,  increasing  by  myriads  again 
Till  even  in  numbers  old  Europe  may  wane. 
How  shall  a  son  of  the  England  they  fought 
Fail  to  declare  the  full  pride  of  his  thought. 
Stand  with  the  scoffers  who,  year  after  year, 
Bring  the  Republic  their  half -hidden  sneer? 
Now,  as  in  beauty  she  stands  at  our  side, 
Who  shall  withhold  the  full  gift  of  his  pride? 
Not  the  great  England  who  knows  that  her  son, 
Washington,  fought  her,  and  Liberty  won. 
England,  whose  names  like  the  stars  in  their  station, 
Stand  at  the  foot  of  that  world's  Declaration, — 
Washington,  Livingston,  Langdon,  she  claims  them. 
It  is  her  right  to  be  proud  when  she  names  them, 
Proud  of  that  voice  in  the  night  as  it  came, 
Tossing  the  flags  of  the  nations  to  flame: 


110  MODERN  VERSE 

I  am  the  breath  of  God.    I  am  His  laughter. 
I  am  His  Liberty.     That  is  my  name. 

Flags,  in  themselves,  are  but  rags  that  are  dyed. 
Flags,  in  that  wind,  are  like  nations  enskied. 
See,  how  they  grapple  the  night  as  it  rolls 
And  trample  it  under  like  triumphing  souls. 
Over  the  city  that  never  knew  sleep, 
Look  at  the  riotous  folds  as  they  leap. 
Thousands  of  tri-colors,  laughing  for  France, 
Eipple  and  whisper  and  thunder  and  dance; 
Thousands  of  flags  for  Great  Britain  aflame 
Answer  their  sisters  in  Liberty's  name. 
Belgium  is  burning  in  pride  overhead. 
Poland  is  near,  and  her  sunrise  is  red. 
Under  and  over,  and  fluttering  between, 
Italy  burgeons  in  red,  white  and  green. 
See,  how  they  climb  like  adventurous  flowers, 
Over  the  tops  of  the  terrible  towers.  .  .  . 
There,  in  the  darkness,  the  glories  are  mated. 
There,  in  the  darkness,  a  world  is  created. 
There,  in  this  Pentecost,  streaming  on  high. 
There,  with  a  glory  of  stars  in  the  sky. 
There  the  broad  flag  of  our  union  and  liberty 
Rides  the  proud  night-wind  and  tyrannies  die. 

— Alfred  Noyes 


PRAYER  OF  A  SOLDIER  IN  FRANCE  * 

My  shoulders  ache  beneath  my  pack 
(Lie  easier,  Cross,  upon  His  back). 

*  From  Joyce  Kilmer;  Poems,  Essayst  and  letters.     Copyright,  1918, 
George  H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 


WAR  111 

I  march  with  feet  that  burn  and  smart 
(Tread,  Holy  Feet,  upon  my  heart). 

Men  shout  at  me  who  may  not  speak 

(They  scourged  Thy  back  and  smote  Thy  cheek). 

I  may  not  lift  a  hand  to  clear 

My  eyes  of  salty  drops  that  sear. 

(Then  shall  my  fickle  soul  forget 
Thy  Agony  of  Bloody  Sweat?) 

My  rifle  hand  is  stiff  and  numb 

(From  Thy  pierced  palm  red  rivers  come). 

Lord,  Then  didst  suffer  more  for  me 
Than  all  the  hosts  of  land  and  sea. 

So  let  me  render  back  again 

This  millionth  of  Thy  gift.     Amen. 

— Joyce  Kilmer 


THE  SMALL  TOWN  CELEBRATES 

We  tumbled  out  into  the  starry  dark 
Under  the  cold  stars ;  still  the  sirens  shrieked, 
And  as  we  reached  the  square,  two  rockets  hissed 
And  flowered:  they  were  the  only  two  in  town. 
Down  streamed  the  people,  blowing  frosty  breath 
Under  the  lamps — the  mayor  and  the  marshal, 
The  fire  department,  members  of  the  band, 


112 


Buttoning  their  clothes  with  one  hand,  while  the  other 

Clutched  a  cold  clarionet  or  piccolo 

That  shivered  for  its  first  ecstatic  squeal. 

We  had  no  cannon — we  made  anvils  serve, 

Just  as  our  fathers  did  when  Sumter  fell ; 

And  all  a  little  town  could  do,  to  show 

That  twenty  haughty  cities  heaped  together 

Could  not  be  half  so  proud  and  glad  as  we, 

We  did.     Soon  a  procession  formed  itself — 

Prosperous  and  poor,  young,  old,  and  staid  and  gay, 

Every  glad  soul  who'd  had  the  hardihood 

To  jump  from  a  warm  bed  at  four  o'clock 

Into  the  starry  blackness.     Bound  the  square — 

A  most  unmilitary  sight — it  pranced, 

Straggled  and  shouted,  while  the  street-lamps  blinked 

In  sleepy  wonder. 

At  the  very  end 

Where  the  procession  dwindled  to  a  tail, 
Shuffled  Old  Boozer.     From  a  snorting  car 
But  just  arrived,  a  leading  citizen 
Sprang  to  the  pavement. 

"Hallelujah,  Boss! 
"We's  whop  de  Kaiser!" 

"Well,  you  old  black  fraud," 
(The  judge's  smile  was  hiding  in  his  beard) 
"What's  he  to  you?" 

Old  Boozer  bobbed  and  blinked 
Under  the  lamps;  another  moment,  he 
Had  scrambled  to  the  base  about  the  post, 
And  through  the  nearer  crowd  the  shout  went  round, 
"Listen— Old  Boozer's  going  to  preach !" 

He  raised 
His  tranced  eyes.     A  moment's  pause. 

"0  Lawd, 


WAR  113 

You  heah  dis  gemman.  ax  me  dat  jes'  now, 

'What's  he  to  Boozer'?     Doan  he  know,  0  Lawd, 

Dat  Kaiser's  boot-heel  jes'  been  tinglin'  up 

To  stomp  on  Boozer?     Doan  he  know  de  po', 

De  feeble,  an'  de  littlesome  toddlin'  chile 

Dat  scream  to  Ilebben  when  he  tromp  'em  down, 

Hab  drug  dat  Bad  Man  right  down  off  his  throne 

To  ebberlastin'  torment?     Glory,  Lawd! 

We  done  pass  through  de  Red  Sea!     Glory,  Lawd! 

De  Lawd  done  drug  de  mighty  from  his  seat ! 

He  done  exalted  dem  ob  low  degree! 

He  sabe  de  spark  from  dem  dat  stomp  it  out ! 

He  sabe  de  seed  from  dem  dat  tromp  it  down ! 

He  sabe  de  lebben  struggiin'  in  de  lump ! 

He  sabe  de — " 

Cheering,  laughing,  moving  on, 
With  cries  of  "Go  it,  Boozer!"  the  crowd  swirled 
About  his  perch;  but,  as  I  passed,  I  saw 
A  red-haired  boy,  who  stood,  and  did  not  move, 
But  gazed  and  gazed,  as  if  the  old  man's  words 
Raised  visions.     In  his  shivering  arms  he  held 
A  struggling  puppy;  once  I  heard  him  say, 
"Down,  Wood  row!"  but  he  scarcely  seemed  to  know 
He  spoke.     The  stars  paled  slowly  overhead; 
The  din  increased;  the  crowd  surged;  but  the  boy 
Stood  rapt.     As  I  turned  back  once  more,  I  saw 
Full  morning  on  his  face.     And  at  the  end 
Of  our  one  down-town  street,  the  laughing  sun 
Came  shouting  up,  belated,  but  most,  glad. 

— Karle  Wilson  Baker 


114  MODERN  VERSE 

CONTINUITY 

No  sign  is  made  while  empires  pass, 
The  flowers  and  stars  are  still  His  care, 
The  constellations  hid  in  grass, 
The  golden  miracles  in  air. 

Life  in  an  instant  will  be  rent, 

Where  death  is  glittering  blind  and  wild— 

The  Heavenly  Brooding  is  intent 

To  that  last  instant  on  Its  child. 

It  breathes  the  glow  in  brain  and  heart, 
Life  is  made  magical.     Until 
Body  and  spirit  are  apart 
The  Everlasting  works  Its  will. 

In  that  wild  orchid  that  your  feet 
In  their  next  falling  shall  destroy, 
Minute  and  passionate  and  sweet 
The  Mighty  Master  holds  His  joy. 

Though  the  crushed  jewels  droop  and  fade, 
The  Artist's  labors  will  not  cease, 
And  of  the  ruins  shall  be  made 
Some  yet  more  lovely  masterpiece. 

— A.  E. 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME 


BABY  PANTOMIME  * 

Serene,  he  sits  on  other  shores 

Than  ours :  with  wide,  unconscious  lands 
He  holds  strange  speech,  or,  silent,  pores 

On  denizens  of  viewless  strands; 
On  tablets  of  the  air  weird  scores 

He  writes,  and  makes   with  eager  hands 
As  strange  erasements;  then,  two-fisted,  stores 

An  elfin  hour-glass  with  heavenly  sands. 

— Percy  MacKaye 


A  MAN-CHILD'S  LULLABY 

Little  groping  hands  that  must  learn  the  weight  of  labor, 

Little  eyes  of  wonder  that  must  learn  to  weep ; 
Mother  is  thy  life  now:  that  shall  be  to-morrow — 
Time  enough  for  trouble — time  enough  for  sorrow — 
Now  .  .  .  sleep. 

Little  dumb  lips  that  shall  wake  and  make  a  woman, 

Little  blind  heart  that  shall  know  the  worst  and  best; 
Mother  is  thy  love  now :  that  shall  be  hereafter — 
Time  enough  for  joy,  and  time  enough  for  laughter — 
Now  .  .  .  rest. 

Little  rosy  body,  new-born  of  pain  and  beauty, 
Little  lonely  soul  new-risen  from  the  deep ; 

*  From  The  Sistine  Eve,  by  Percy  MacKaye.     Used  by  special  per- 
mission of  The  Macmillan  Company,   publishers. 

117 


118  MODERN  VERSE 

Mother  is  thy  world  now,  whole  and  satisfying — 
Time  enough  for  living — time  enough  for  dying — 
Now  .  .  .sleep. 

— Brian  Hooker 


JUSTICE  * 

Michael,  come  in!     Stop  crying  at  the  door. 

Come  in  and  see  the  evil  you  have  done. 

Here  is  your  sister's  doll  with  one  leg  gone, 
Naked  and  helpless  on  the  playroom  floor. 
' '  Poor  child !  poor  child !  now  he  can  never  stand. 

"With  one  leg  less  he  could  not  even  sit!" 
She  mourned,  but  first,  with  swift  avenging  hand. 

She  smote,  and  I  am  proud  of  her  for  it. 

Michael,  my  sympathies  are  all  for  you. 

Your  cherub  mouth,  your  miserable  eyes, 

Your  gray -blue  smock  tear-spattered  and  your  cries 
Shatter  my  heart,  but  what  am  I  to  do? 
He  was  her  baby  and  the   fear  of  bears 

Lay  heavy  on  him  so  he  could  not  sleep 
But  in  the  crook  of  her  dear  arm,  she  swears. 

So,  Michael,  she  was  right  and  you  must  weep. 

— Aline  Kilmer 


*  From  Candles  That  Burn,  by  Aline  Kilmer.     Copyright,  1919,  George 
H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  119 


SMELLS— (JUNIOR)  * 

My  Daddy  smells  like  tobacco  and  books 

Mother,  like  lavender  and  listerine; 
Uncle  John  carries  a  whiff  of  cigars, 

Nannie  smells  starchy  and  soapy  and  clean. 

Shandy,  my  dog,  has  a  smell  of  his  own 

(When  he's  been  out  in  the  rain  he  smells  most)  ; 
But  Katie,  the  cook,  is  more  splendid  than  all — 

She  smells  exactly  like  hot  buttered  toast! 

— Christopher  Morley 


Though  others  think  I  stare  with  eyes  unseeing, 

I've  loved  you,  Mistress  mine,  so  dear  to  me, 
With  all  my  fervent  rag-and-sawdust  being 

Since  first  you  took  me  from  the  Christmas  Tree. 
I  love  you  though  my  only  frock  you  tear  off; 

I  love  you  though  you  smear  my  face  at  meals ; 
I  love  you  though  you've  washed  my  painted  hair  off: 

I  love  you  when  you  drag  me  by  the  heels; 
I  love  you  though  you've  sewed  three  buttons  on  me, 

But  most  I  love  you  when  you  sit  upon  me. 

*  From  The  Rocking  Horse,  by  Christopher  Morley.     Copyright,  1919, 
George  H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 

*  From  The  Laughing  Muse,  by  Arthur  Guiterman.     Copyright,  1915, 
by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


120  MODERN  VERSE 

No  jealous  pang  shall  mar  my  pure  affection ; 

For,  while  'tis  true  your  heart  I'm  forced  to  share 
With  that  Wax  Doll  of  pink-and-white  complexion, 

The  Pussy  Cat,  the  Lamb  and  Teddy  Bear, 
'Tis  mine  alone,  whate'er  the  time  or  place  is, 

To  know  your  every  grief  and  each  delight; 
I  feel  your  childish  wrath  and  warm  embraces, 

I  share  your  little  pillow  every  night. 
And  so,  without  another  why  or  whether, 
I'll  love  you  while  my  stitches  hold  together! 

— Arthur  Guiterman 


It  was  awful  long  ago 

That  I  put  those  seeds  around; 
And  I  guess  I  ought  to  know 

When  I  stuck  'em  in  the  ground, 
'Cause  I  noted  down  the  day 

In  a  little  diary  book — 
It's  gotten  losted  somewhere,  and 

I  don't  know  where  to  look. 

But  I'm  certain  anyhow 

They've  been  planted  most  a  week; 
And  it  must  be  time  by  now 

For  their  little  sprouts  to  peek. 
They've  been  watered  every  day 

With  a  very  speshul  care, 
And  once  or  twice  I  've  dug  'em  up  to 

see  if  they  was  there. 

*From  Youngsters,  published  by  E.  P.  Button  &  Company;  by  per- 
mission  of  the  author. 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  121 


I  fixed  the  dirt  in  humps 

Just  the  way  they  said  I  should ; 
And  I  crumbled  all  the  lumps 

Just  as  finely  as  I  could. 
And  I  found  a  nangle-worm 

A-poking  up  his  head, — 
He  maybe  feeds  on  seeds  and  such, 

and  so  I  squushed  him  dead. 

A  seed's  so  very  small, 

And  dirt  all  looks  the  same ; — 
How  can  they  know  at  all 

The  way  they  ought  to  aim? 
And  so  I'm  waiting  round 

In  case  of  any  need ; 
A  farmer  ought  to  do  his  best  for 

every  single  seed! 

— Surges  Johnson 


THE  DEW-LIGHT  * 

The  Dew-Man  comes  over  the  mountains  wide, 
Over  the  deserts  of  sand, 
With  his  bag  of  clear  drops 
And  his  brush  of  feathers, 

rHe  scatters  brightness, 

The  white  bunnies  beg  him  for  dew. 

*  Reprinted  with  permission  from  Poems  by  a  Little  Girl,  by  Hilda 
Conkling.     Copyright,  1920,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


122  MODERN  VERSE 

He  sprinkles  their  fur  .  .  . 
They  shake  themselves. 
All  the  time  he  is  singing, 

The  unknown  world  is  beautiful! 

He  polishes  flowers, 

Humming,  "Oh,  beautiful!" 

He  sings  in  the  soft  light 

That  grows  out  of  the  dew; 

Out  of  the  misty  dew-light  that  leans  over  him 

He  makes  his  song. 

It  is   beautiful,   the  unknown   world! 

— Hilda  Conkling 
(8  years  old) 


THE  SHADOW  PEOPLE 

Old  lame  Bridget  doesn't  hear 
Fairy  music  in  the  grass 
When  the  gloaming's  on  the  mere 
And  the  shadow  people  pass: 
Never  hears  their  slow  gray  feet 
Coming  from  the  village  street 
Just  beyond  the  parson's  wall, 
Where  the  clover  globes  are  sweet 
And  the  mushroom's  parasol 
Opens  in  the  moonlit  rain. 
Every  night  I  hear  them  call  ' 
From  their  long  and  merry  train. 
Old  lame  Bridget  says  to  me, 
"It  is  just  your  fancy,  child." 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  123 

She  cannot  believe  I  see 
Laughing  faces  in  the  wild, 
Hands  that  twinkle  in  the  sedge 
Bowing  at  the  water's  edge 
Where  the  finny  minnows  quiver, 
Shaping  on  a  blue  wave's  ledge 
Bubble  foam  to  sail  the  river. 
And  the  sunny  hands  to  me 
Beckon  ever,  beckon  ever. 
Oh !  I  would  be  wild  and  free 
And  with  the  shadow  people  be. 

— Francis  Ledwidge 


INCORRIGIBLE  * 

I  guess  I  'm  bad  as  I  can  be 

'Cause  after  uncle  found  and  yanked  me 
Out  of  that  old  apple-tree, 

And  after  dad  came  home  and  spanked  me, 
And  while  my  teacher  told  me  things 

About  the  narrow  path  of  duty, 
And  how  an  education  brings 

The  only  truly  joy  and  beauty, 
And  while  she  said  she  didn't  doubt 

They'd  wasted  all  the  good  they'd  taught  me, 
I  had  to  grin,  to  think  about 

The  fun  I  had  before  they  caught  me. 

— Surges  Johnson 

*  From  Youngsters,  published  by  E.  P.  Button  &  Company ;  by  per- 
mission of  the  author. 


MODERN  VERSE 


DA  YOUNGA  'MERICAN 

I,  Mysal ',  I  f eela  strange 

Een  dees  countra.     I  can  no 
Mak'  mysal'  agen  an'  change 

Eento  'Merican,  an'  so 
I  am  w'at  you  calla  me, 

Justa  "dumb  ole  Dago  man." 
Alia  same  my  boy  ees  be 

Smarta  younga  'Merican. 
Twalv'  year  ole !  but  alia  same 

He  ees  learna  soocha  lot 
He  can  read  an'  write  hees  name — 

Smarta  keed  ?     I  tal  you  w  'at ! 

He  no  talk  Italian ; 

He  says:     "Dat's  for  Dagoes  speak, 
I  am  younga  'Merican, 

Dago  langwadge  mak'  me  seeck." 
Eef  you  gona  tal  heein,  too, 

He  ees  "leetla  Dago,"  my! 

He  ees  gat  so  mad  weeth  you 

He  gon'  ponch  you  een  da  eye. 
Mebbe  so  you  gona  mak' 

Fool  weeth  heem — an'  mebbe  not. 
Queeck  as  flash  he  sass  you  back ; 

Smarta  keed  ?     I  tal  you  w  'at ! 

He  ees  moocha'  'shame'  for  be 

Meexa  weeth  Italian; 
He  ees  moocha  'shame'  of  me — 

I  am  dumb  ole  Dago  man. 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  125 

Evra  time  w'en  I  go  out 

Weetha  heem  I  no  can  speak 
To  som'body.     "Shut  your  mout',*' 

He  weell  tal  me  pretta  queeck, 
"You  weell  geeve  yoursal'  away 

Talkin'  Dago  lika  dat ; 
Try  be  'Merican,"  he  say— 

Smarta  keed?     I  tal  you  w'at! 

I  am  w'at  you  calla  me, 

Justa  "dumb  ole  Dago  man:" 
Alia  same  my  boy  ees  be 

Smarta  younga  'Merican. 

—T.  A.  Daly 


LITTLE  PAN  * 

Out  on  the  hill — by  an  autumn-tree 

As  red  as  his  cheek  in  the  weather — 
He  waved  a  sumac-torch  of  glee 

And  preened,  like  a  scarlet  feather, 
A  branch  of  maple  bright  on  his  breast 

And  shook  an  oak  in  his  cap ; 
And  the  dance  of  his  heels  on  the  rocky  crest 

Was  a  woodpecker's  tap-tap-tap. 

The  eyes  of  a  squirrel  were  quick  in  his  head 

And  the  grace  of  a  deer  in  his  shoulder, 
And  never  a  cardinal  beckoned  so  red 

*  Reprinted  with  permission  from  Grenstone  Poems,  by  Witter  Bynner. 
•Copyright,  1917,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


126  MODERN  VERSE 

As  his  torch  when  he  leapt  on  a  boulder; 
A  robin  exclaiming  he  mocked  in  a  voice 

Which  hurried  the  heavens  around  him. 
What  could  we  do  but  attend  and  rejoice, 

Celia  and  I  who  had  found  him ! 

He  spied  us  at  last,  though  we  hid  by  a  pine ; 

And  before  he  might  vanish  in  smoke 
I  tried  to  induce  him  to  give  us  a  sign, 

But  he  stopped  in  his  dance  when  I  spoke — 
"0  tell  me  your  name  and  the  hill  you  inhabit !" 

He  curled  round  his  tree  like  a  cat ; 
"They  call  me,"  he  cried,  as  he  fled  like  a  rabbit, 

"Donovan's  damned  little  brat!" 

— Witter  Bynner 


EUFUS  PRAYS 

In  the  darkening  church, 
Where  but  a  few  had  stayed, 
At  the  Litany  Desk 
The  idiot  knelt  and  prayed. 

Rufus,  stunted,  uncouth, 
The  one  son  of  his  mother: 
"Eh,  I'd  sooner  'ave  Rufie," 
She  said,  "than  many  another. 

'E  's  so  useful  about  the  'ouse 
And  so  gentle  as  'e  can  be 
And  'e  gets  up  early  o'  mornin's 
To  make  me  a  cup  o'  tea." 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  127 

The  formal  evensong 

Had  passed  over  his  head: 

He  sucked  Ins  thumb,  and  squinted, 

And  dreamed,  instead. 

Now  while  the  organ  boomed 
To  few  who  still  were  there, 
At  the  Litany  Desk 
The  idiot  made  his  prayer : 

"Gawd  bless  Muther, 
'N '  make  Rufie  a  good  lad. 
Take  Rufie  to  Heaven, 
'N'  forgive  him  when  he's  bad. 

"  'N'  early  mornin's  in  Heaven 
'E  '11  make  Muther 's  tea, 
'N'  a  cup  for  the  Lord  Jesus 
'N'  a  cup  for  Thee." 

— L.  A.  G.  Strong 


AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  EOADS 

0,  to  have  a  little  house ! 
To  own  the  hearth  and  stool  and  all ! 
The  heaped  up  sods  upon  the  fire, 
The  pile  of  turf  against  the  wall ! 

To  have  a  clock  with  weights  and  chains 
And  pendulum  swinging  up  and  down! 


128  MODERN  VERSE 

A  dresser  filled  with  shining  delph, 
Speckled  and  white  and  blue  and  brown ! 

I  could  be  busy  all  the  day 

Clearing  and  sweeping  hearth  and  floor, 

And  fixing  on  their  shelf  again 

My  white  and  blue  and  speckled  store ! 

I  could  be  quiet  there  at  night 
Beside  the  fire  and  by  myself, 
Sure  of  a  bed  and  loth  to  leave 
The  ticking  clock  and  the  shining  delph. 

Och !  but  I  'm  weary  of  mist  and  dark, 

And  roads  where  there  's  never  a  house  nor  bush, 

And  tired  I  am  of  bog  and  road, 

And  the  crying  wind  and  the  lonesome  hush ! 

And  I  am  praying  to  God  on  high, 
And  I  am  praying  Him  night  and  day, 
For  a  little  house — a  house  of  my  own — 
Out  of  the  wind's  and  the  rain's  way. 

• — Padraic  Colum 


THE  ANCIENT  BEAUTIFUL  THINGS 

I  am  all  alone  in  the  room. 
The  evening  stretches  before  me 
Like  a  road  all  delicate  gloom 
Till  it  readies  the  midnight's  gate. 
And  I  hear  his  step  on  the  path, 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  129 

And  his  questioning  whistle,  low 
At  the  door  as  I  hurry  to  meet  him. 

He  will  ask,  "Are  the  doors  all  locked? 
Is  the  fire  made  safe  on  the  hearth  ? 
And  she — is  she  sound  asleep?" 

I  shall  say  "Yes,  the  doors  are  locked, 

And  the  ashes  are  white  as  the  frost: 

Only  a  few  red  eyes 

To  stare  at  the  empty  room. 

And  she  is  all  sound  asleep, 

Up  there  where  the  silence  sings, 

And  the  curtains  stir  in  the  cold.'; 

He  will  ask,  "And  what  did  you  do 
While  I  have  been  gone  so  long? 
So  long !     Four  hours  or  five ! ' ' 

I  shall  say,  "There  was  nothing  I  did. — 

I  mended  that  sleeve  of  your  coat. 

And  I  made  her  a  little  white  hood 

Of  the  furry  pieces  I  found 

Up  in  the  garret  to-day. 

She  shall  wear  it  to  play  in  the  snow, 

Like  a  little  white  bear, — and  shall  laugh, 

And  tumble,  and  crystals  of  stars 

Shall  shine  on  her  cheeks  and  hair. 

— It  was  nothing  I  did. — I  thought 

You  would  never  come  home  again!" 

Then  he  will  laugh  out,  low. 
Being  fond  of  my  folly,  perhaps; 
And  softly  and  hand  in  hand 


130  MODERN  VERSE 

"We  shall  creep  upstairs  in  the  dusk 
To  look  at  her,  lying  asleep: 
Our  little  gold  bird  in  her  nest: 
The  wonderful  bird  who  flew  in 
At  the  window  our  life  flung  wide. 
(How  should  we  have  chosen  her, 
Had  we  seen  them  all  in  a  row, 
The  unborn  vague  little  souls, 
All  wings  and  tremulous  hands? 
How  should  we  have  chosen  her, 
Made  like  a  star  to  shine, 
Made  like  a  bird  to  fly, 
Out  of  a  drop  of  our  blood, 
And  earth,  and  fire,  and  God?) 

Then  we  shall  go  to  sleep, 
Glad.— 

0  God,  did  you  know 
When  you  molded  men  out  of  clay, 
Urging  them  up  and  up 
Through  the  endless  circles  of  change, 
Travail  and  turmoil  and  death, 
Many  would  curse  you  down, 
Many  would  live  all  gray 
With  their  faces  flat  like  a  mask: 
But  there  would  be  some,  0  God, 
Crying  to  you  each  night, 
"I  am  so  glad!  so  glad! 
I  am  so  rich  and  gay ! 
How  shall  I  thank  you,  God?" 

Was  that  one  thing  you  knew 

When  you  smiled  and  found  it  was  good : 

The  curious  teeming  earth 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  131 

That  grew  like  a  child  at  your  hand? 
Ah,  you  might  smile,  for  that! — 

— I  am  all  alone  in  the  room. 
The  books  and  the  pictures  peer, 
Dumb  old  friends,  from  the  dark. 
The  wind  goes  high  on  the  hills, 
And  my  fire  leaps  out,  being  proud. 
The  terrier,  down  on  the  hearth, 
Twitches  and  barks  in  his  sleep, 
Soft  little  foolish  barks, 
More  like  a  dream  than  a  dog  .  .  . 
I  will  mend  the  sleeve  of  that  coat, 
All  ragged, — and  make  her  the  hood 
Furry,  and  white,  for  the  snow. 
She  shall  tumble  and  laugh  .  .  . 

Oh,  I  think 

Though  a  thousand  rivers  of  grief 
Flood  over  my  head — though  a  hill 
Of  horror  lie  on  my  breast, — 
Something  will  sing,  "Be  glad! 
You  have  had  all  your  heart's  desire : 
The  unknown  things  that  you  asked 
When  you  lay  awake  in  the  nights, 
Alone,  and  searching  the  dark 
For  the  secret  wonder  of  life. 
You  have  had  them  (can  you  forget?)  : 
The  ancient  beautiful  things!"  .-  .  . 

How  long  he  is  gone.     And  yet 
It  is  only  an  hour  or  two  .  .  . 


132  MODERN  VERSE 

Oh,  I  am  so  happy.     My  eyes 
Are  troubled  with  tears. 

Did  you  know, 
0  God,  they  would  like  this, 
Your  ancient  beautiful  things? 
Are  there  more?    Are  there  more, — out  there  f- 
0  God,  are  there  always  more? 

— Fannie  Stearns  Davis 


YOU,  FOUR  WALLS,  WALL  NOT  IN  MY 
HEART ! 

You,  Four  Walls, 

Wall  not  in  my  heart ! 
When  the  lovely  night-time  falls 

All  so  welcomely, 
Blinding,  sweet  hearth-fire, 
Light  of  heart's  desire, 

Blind  not,  blind  not  me ! 
Unto  them  that  weep  apart, — 
While  you  glow,  within, 

Wreckt,  despairing  kin, — 
— Do  not  blind  my  heart ! 

You,  close  Heart ! 

Never  hide  from  mine 
Worlds  that  I  divine 
Through  thy  human  dearness; 
0,  beloved  Nearness, 
Hallow  all  I  understand 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  133 

With  thy  hand-in-hand; — 
All  the  lights  I  seek 
"With  thy  cheek-to-cheek. 

All  the  loveliness  I  loved  apart. 

You,  heart's  Home! 

Wall  not  in  my  heart. 

— Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


MY  DOG  * 

I  have  no  dog,  but  it  must  be 

Somewhere  there's  one  belongs  to  me — 

A  little  chap  with  wagging  tail, 

And  dark  brown  eyes  that  never  quail, 

But  look  you  through,  and  through,  and  through 

With  love  unspeakable,  but  true. 

Somewhere  it  must  be,  I  opine, 
There  is  a  little  dog  of  mine 
With  cold  black  nose  that  sniffs  around 
In  search  of  what  things  may  be  found 
In  pocket,  or  some  nook  hard  by 
Where  I  have  hid  them  from  his  eye. 

Somewhere  my  doggie  pulls  and   tugs 
The  fringes  of  rebellious  rugs, 
Or  with  the  mischief  of  the  pup 
Chews  all  my  shoes  and  slippers  up, 
And  when  he's  done  it  to  the  core 
With  eyes  all  eager  pleads  for  more. 

*  From   Foothills  of  Pa'massus,  by  John   Kendriek   Bun^s.     Used  by 
special  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


134  MODERN  VERSE 

Somewhere  upon  his  hinder  legs 

My  little  doggie  sits  and  begs, 

And  in  a  wistful  minor  tone 

Pleads  for  the  pleasures  of  the  bone — 

I  pray  it  be  his  owner's  whim 

To  yield,  and  grant  the  same  to  him. 

Somewhere  a  little  dog  doth  wait, 

It  may  be  by  some  garden-gate, 

With  eyes  alert  and  tail  attent — 

You  know  the  kind  of  tail  that's  meant — 

"With  stores  of  yelps  of  glad  delight 

To  bid  me  welcome  home  at  night. 

Somewhere  a  little  dog  is  seen, 
His  nose  two  shaggy  paws  between, 
Flat  on  his  stomach,  one  eye  shut 
Held  fast  in  dreamy  slumber,  but 
The  other  open,   ready  for 
His  master  coming  through  the  door. 

— John  Kendrick  Bangs 


IN  SERVICE 

Little  Nellie  Cassidy  has  got  a  place  in  town, 

She  wears  a  fine  white  apron, 

She  wears  a  new  black  gown, 
An'  the  quarest  little  cap  at  all  with  straymers  hanging  down 

I  met  her  one  fine  evening  stravagin'  down  the  street, 
A  feathered  hat  upon  her  head, 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  135 

And  boots  upon  her  feet. 

"Och,  Mick,"  says  she,  "may  God  be  praised  that  you  and  I 
should  meet. 

' '  It 's  lonesome  in  the  city  with  such  a  crowd, ' '  says  she ; 

"I'm  lost  without  the  bog-land, 

I'm  lost  without  the  sea, 
An'  the  harbor  an'  the  fishing-boats  that  sail  out  fine  and  free. 

"I'd  give  a  golden  guinea  to  stand  upon  the  shore, 

To  see  the  big  waves  lepping, 

To  hear  them  splash  and  roar, 
To  smell  the  tar  and  the  drying  nets,  I'd  not  be  asking  more. 

"To  see  the  small  white  houses,  their  faces  to  the  sea, 

The  childher  in  the  doorway, 

Or  round  my  mother 's  knee ; 

For  I'm  strange  and  lonesome  missing  them,  God  keep  them 
all,"  says  she. 

Little  Nellie  Cassidy  earns  fourteen  pounds  and  more, 

"Waiting  on  the  quality, 

And  answering  the  door — 

But  her  heart  is  some  place  far  away  upon  the  "Wexford  shore. 

— W.  M.  Letts 


MY  SWEET  BROWN  GAL  * 

Wen  de  clouds  is  hangin'  heavy  in  de  sky, 
An'  de  win's    's  a-taihin'  moughty  vig'rous  by, 
I  don'  go  a-sighin'  all  erlong  de  way; 
I  des'  wo'k  a-waitin'  fu'  de  close  o'  day. 

*  From    Lyrics   of  Love   and   Laughter   by    Paul   Laurence    Dunbar 
Copyright  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 


136  MODERN  VERSE 

Case  I  knows  w 'en  evenin'  draps  huh  shadders  down, 
I  won'  care  a  smidgeon  fu'  de  weathah's  frown; 
Let  de  rain  go  splashin',  let  de  thundah  rain, 
Dey's  a  happy  sheltah,  an'  I's  goin'  daih. 

Down  in  my  ol'  cabin  wa'm  ez  mammy's  toas', 
'Taters  in  de  fiah  lay  in'  daih  to  roas'; 
No  one  daih  to  cross  me,  got  110  talkin'  pal, 
But  I 's  got  de  comp  'ny  o '  my  sweet  brown  gal. 

So  I  spen's  my  evenin'  listenin'  to  huh  sing, 
Lak  a  blessid  angel;  how  huh  voice  do  ring! 
Sweetah  den  a  bluebird  flutter-in'  erroun', 
Wn  he  sees  de  steamin'  o'  de  new  plowed  groun*. 

Den  I  hugs  huh  closah,  closah  to  my  breas'. 
Needn't  sing,  my  da  lm',tek  you'  hones'  res'. 
Does  I  mean  Malindy,  Mandy,  Lize  er  Sal? 
No,  I  means  my  fiddle — dat's  my  sweet  brown  gal! 
»  • — ljaul  Laurence  Duribar 


THE  SUNKEN  GARDEN 

Speak  not — whisper  not ; 
Here  bloweth  thyme  and  bergamot; 
Softly  on  the  evening  hour, 
Secret  herbs  their  spices  shower, 
Dark-spiked  rosemary   and  myrrh. 
Lean-stalked,  purple  lavender; 
Hides  within  her  bosom,  too, 
All  her  sorrows,  bitter  rue. 


CHILDREN  AND  HOME  137 

Breathe  not — trespass  not ; 
Of  this  green  and  darkling  spot, 
Latticed  from  the  moon's  beams, 
Perchance  a  distant  dreamer  dreams j 
Perchance  upon  its  darkening   air, 
The  unseen  ghosts  of  children  fare, 
Faintly  swinging,  sway  and  sweep, 
Like  lovely  sea-flowers  in  its  deep ; 
While,  unmoved,  to  watch  and  ward, 
'Mid  its  gloomed  and  daisied  sward, 
Stands  with  bowed  and  dewy  head 
That  one  little  leaden  Lad. 

— Walter  de  la  Mare 


THE  GARDEN  BY    MOONLIGHT  * 

A.  black  cat  among  roses, 

Phlox,  lilac-misted  under  a  first-quarter  moon, 

The  sweet  smells  of  heliotrope  and  night-scented  stockc 

The  garden  is  very  still, 

It  is  dazed  with  moonlight, 

Contented  with  perfume, 

Dreaming  the  opium  dreams  of  its  folded  poppies. 

Firefly  lights  open  and  vanish 

High  as  the  tip  buds  of  the  golden  glow 

Low  as  the  sweet  alyssum  flowers  at  my  feet. 

Moon-shimmer  on  leaves  and  trellises, 

ivluon-spikes  shafting  through  the  snow-ball  bush. 

*  From  Pictures  of  the  Floating  World,  by  Amy  Lowell.     Used  by  spe« 
cial  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


138  MODERN  VERSE 

Only  the  little  faces  of  the  ladies'  delight  are  alert  and  staring, 

Only  the  cat,  padding  between  the  roses, 

Shakes  a  branch  and  breaks  the  chequered  pattern 

As  water  is  broken  by  the  falling  of  a  leaf. 

Then  you  come. 

And  you  are  quiet  like  the  garden, 

And  white  like  the  alyssum  flowers, 

And  beautiful  as  the  silent  sparks  of  the  fireflies. 

Ah,  Beloved,  do  you  see  those  orange  lilies? 

They  knew  my  mother, 

But  who  belonging  to  me  will  they  know 

When  I  am  gone. 

— Amy  Lowell 


I  loved  you  for  your  loving  ways, 
The  ways  that  many  did  not  know; 

Although  my  heart  would  beat  and  glow 
When  Nations  crowned  you  with  their  bays. 

I  loved  you  for  the  tender  hand 
That  held  my  own  so  close  and  warm, 

t  loved  you  for  the  winning  charm 
That  brought  gay  sunshine  to  the  land. 

I  loved  you  for  the  heart  that  knew 

The  need  of  every  little  child; 
I  loved  you  when  you  turned  and  smiled, — 

It  was  as  though  a  fresh  wind  blew. 

I  loved  you  for  your  loving  ways, 
That  look  that  leaped  to  meet  my  eye, 

The  ever-ready  sympathy, 

The  generous  ardor  of  your  praise. 

I  loved  you  for  the  buoyant  fun 

That  made  perpetual  holiday 
For  all  who  ever  crossed  your  way, 

The  highest  or  the  humblest  one. 

I  loved  you  for  the  radiant  zest, 
The  thrill  and  glamor  that  you  gave 

To  each  glad  hour  that  we  could  save 
And  garner  from  Time's  grim  behest. 
141 


142  MODERN  VERSE 

I  loved  you  for  your  loving  ways, — 
And  just  because  I  loved  them  so, 

And  now  have  lost  them, — thus  I  know 
I  must  go  softly  all  my  days! 

— Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 


A  MILE  WITH  ME 

0,  who  will  walk  a  mile  with  me 

Along  life's  merry  way? 
A  comrade  blithe  and  full  of  glee, 
Who  dares  to  laugh  out  loud  and  free, 
And  let  his  frolic  fancy  play, 
Like  a  happy  child,  through  the  flowers  gay 
That  fill  the  field  and  fringe  the  way 

Where  he  walks  a  mile  with  me. 

And  who  will  walk  a  mile  with  me 

Along  life's  weary  way? 
A  friend  whose  heart  has  eyes  to  see 
The  stars  shine  out  o'er  the  darkening  lea, 
And  the  quiet  rest  at  the  end  o'  the  day, — 
A  friend  who  knows,  and  dares  to  say, 
The  brave,  sweet  words  that  cheer  the  way 
When  he  walks  a  mile  with  me. 

With  such  a  comrade,  such  a  friend 
I  fain  would  walk  till  journey's  end, 
Through  summer  sunshine,  winter  rain, 
And  then? — Farewell,  we  shall  meet  again! 

— Henry  van  Dyke 


FRIENDSHIP  AND  LOVE  143 


MY  FRIEND  * 

The  friend  I  love  is  like  the  sea  to  me, 
With  spacious  days  of  large  tranquility 
When  on  my  heart  his  wordless  comforts  lie, 
As  on  the  utter  sea  rim  rests  the  sky ; 
And  like  the  sea  for  wrath  he  is,  and  strong 
To  launch  his  surges  on  the  cliffs  of  Wrong ; 
But  most  I  love  him  for  his  deep-sea  spell 
Of  unguessed  secrets  that  he  may  not  tell: 
So  I  have  seen  him  stand  and  look  afar 
Beyond  the  twilight  to  the  evening  star, 
And  like  the  ocean's  haunting  lure  to  me, 
Deep  in  his  eyes  I  read  a  mystery: — 
For  he  whose  soul  we  fathom  to  the  end 
Becomes  our  servant  then,  and  not  our  friend. 

— Walter  Prichard  Eaton 


PEOPLE 

Like  to  islands  in  the  seas 
Stand  our  personalities: 
Islands  where  we  always  face 
One  another's  watering-place; 
When  we  promenade  our  sands, 
We  can  hear  each  other's  bands; 
We  can  see  on  festal  nights 
Red  and  green  and  purple  lights, 

*  From  Echoes  and  Realities,  by  Walter  Prichard  Eaton.     Copyright, 
?918,  George  H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 


144  MODERN  VERSE 

Gilt  pavilions  in  a  row, 
Stucco  houses  built  for  show. 


But  our  eyes  can  never  reach 
Further  than  the  tawdry  beach, 
Never  can  they  hope  to  win 
To  the  wonders  far  within : 
Jagged  rocks  against  the  sky, 
Where  the  eagles  haunt  and  cry, 
Forests  full  of  running  rills, 
Darkest  forests,  sunny  hills, 
Hollows  where  a  Monster  lowers, 
Sweet  and  unimagined  flowers. 

— Frances  D.  Cornford 


SONG 

"Oh!  Love,"  they  said,  "is  King  of  Kings, 

And  Triumph  is  his  crown. 
Earth  fades  in  flame  before  his  wings, 

And  Sun  and  Moon  bow  down." — 
But  that,  I  knew,  would  never  do ; 

And  Heaven  is  all  too  high. 
So  whenever  I  meet  a  Queen,  I  said, 

I  will  not  catch  her  eye. 

"Oh!  Love,"  they  said,  and  "Love,"  they  said5 

"The  gift  of  Love  is  this; 
A  crown  of  thorns  about  thy  head, 

And  vinegar  to  thy  kiss!" 
But  Tragedy  is  not  for  me; 


FRIENDSHIP  AND  LOVE  145 

And  I'm  content  to  be  gay. 
So  whenever  I  spied  a  Tragic  Lady, 
I  went  another  way. 

And  so  I  never  feared  to  see 

You  wander  down  the  street, 
Or  come  across  the  fields  to  me 

On  ordinary  feet. 
For  what  they'd  never  told  me  of, 

And  what  I  never  knew ; 
It  was  that  all  the  time,  my  love, 

Love  would  be  merely  you. 

— Rupert  Brooke 


THE  LOOK  * 

Strephon  kissed  me  in  the  spring, 

Robin  in  the  fall, 
But  Colin  only  looked  at  me 

And  never  kissed  at  all. 

Strephon 's  kiss  was  lost  in  jest, 

Robin's  lost  in  play, 
But  the  kiss  in  Colin 's  eyes 

Haunts  me  night  and  day. 

— Sara  Teasdale 


*  From   Love  Songs,  by  Sara  Teasdale.     Used  by  special  permission 
of  The  Maemillan  Company,  publishers. 


146  MODERN  VERSE 


TO  A  DISTANT  ONE 

Through  wild  by-ways  I  come  to  you,  my  love, 
Nor  ask  of  those  I  meet  the  surest  way ; 
"What  way  I  turn  I  cannot  go  astray 
And  miss  you  in  my  life.     Though  Fate  may  prove 
A  tardy  guide  she  will  not  make  delay 
Leading  me  through  strange  seas  and  distant  lands. 
I'm  coming  still,  though  slowly,  to  your  hands. 
We'll  meet  one  day. 

There  is  so  much  to  do,  so  little  done, 
In  my  life's  space  that  I  perforce  did  leave 
Love  at  the  moonlit  trysting-place  to  grieve 
Till  fame  and  other  little  things  were  won. 
I  have  missed  much  that  I  shall  not  retrieve, 
Far  will  I  wander  yet  with  much  to  do. 
Much  will  I  spurn  before  I  yet  meet  you, 
So  fair  I  can't  deceive. 

Your  name  is  in  the  whisper  of  the  woods 
Like  Beauty  calling  for  a  poet's  song 
To  one  whose  harp  had  suffered  many  a  wrong 
In  the  lean  hands  of  Pain.     And  when  the  broods 
Of  flower  eyes  waken  all  the  streams  along 
In  tender  whiles,  I  feel  most  near  to  you : — 
Oh,  when  we  meet  there  shall  be  sun  and  blue 
Strong  as  the  spring  is  strong. 

— Francis  Ledwidge 


FRIENDSHIP  AND  LOVE  147 


Well,  if  the  thing  is  over,  better  it  is  for  me, 

The  lad  was  ever  a  rover,  loving  and  laughing  free, 

Far  too  clever  a  lover  not  to  be  having  still 

A  lass  in  the  town  and  a  lass  by  the  road  and  a  lass  by  the 

farther  hill — 
Love  on  the  field  and  love  on  the  path  and  love  in  the  woody 

glen— 
(Lad,  will  I  never  see  you,  never  your  face  again?) 

Ay,  if  the  thing  is  ending,  now  I'll  be  getting  rest, 

Saying  my  prayers  and  bending  down  to  be  stilled  and  blest, 

Never  the  days  are  sending  hope  till  my  heart  is  sore 

For  a  laugh  on  the  path  and  a  voice  by  the  gate  and  a  step 

on  the  shieling  floor — 
Grief  on  my  ways  and  grief  on  my  work  and  grief  till  the 

evening's  dim — 
(Lord,  will  I  never  hear  it,  never  a  sound  of  him?) 

Sure  if  it 's  done  forever,  better  for  me  that 's  wise, 
Never  the  hurt,  and  never  tears  in  my  aching  eyes, 
No  more  the  trouble  ever  to  hide  from  my  asking  folk 
Beat  of  my  heart  at  click  o'  the  latch,  and  throb  if  his  name  is 

spoke ; 
Never  the  need  to  hide  the  sighs  and  the  flushing  thoughts  and 

the  fret, 
And  after  awhile  my  heart  will  hush  and  my  hungering  hands 

forget  .  .  . 
Peace  on  my  ways,  and  peace  in  my  step,  and  maybe  my  heart 

grown  light — 
(Mary,  helper  of  heartbreak,  send  him  to  me  to-night!) 

— Margaret  Widdemer 


148  MODERN  VERSE 


GARDEN  OF  THE  ROSE  * 

Her  heart  is  like  a  garden  fair 

Where  many  pleasant  blossoms  grow; 

But  though  I  sometimes  enter  there, 
There  is  one  path  I  do  not  know. 

The  way  I  go  to  find  it  lies 

Through  dewy  beds  of  violet; 
Those  are  the  portals  of  her  eyes, 

Where  modesty  and  truth  are  set. 

And  just  behind,  a  hedge  is  placed — 
A  hedge  of  lilies,  tall  and  white. 

Those  are  her  maiden  thoughts,  so  chaste 
I  almost  tremble  in  their  sight. 

But  shining  through  them,  and  above — 
Half-hid,  but  trembling  to  unfold — 

I  spy  the  roses  of  her  love, 

And  then  again  I  grow  more  bold. 

So,  half  in  prayer,  I  seek  and  wait 

To  find  the  secret  path  that  goes 
Up  from  the  lily-guarded  gate 

To  her  heart's  garden  of  the  rose. 

— Charles  Buxton  Going 


*  From  Star-Glow  and  tfc.ng,  by  Charles  Buxton  Going.     Copyright, 
1909,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


FRIENDSHIP  AND  LOVE  149 


THE  LITTLE  GOLDEN  FOUNTAIN 

Oh,  my  heart  is  a  little  golden  fountain, 

Through  it  and  spilling  over  the  brim 

Wells  the  love  of  you. 

Brighter  gleams  the  gold  for  the  sparkling  water, 

And  down  below  where  the  overflow  drips 

Into  a  clear  little  pool  of  bubbles, 

Fresh  spears  of  grass  spring  against  the  golden  column, 

Oh,  my  heart  is  a  little  golden  fountain 

Fashioned  purely  for  that  leaping  grace, 

The  luminous  love  of  you. 

Up  through  the  column  and  over  the  golden  basin 

It  thrills  and  fills  and  trembles  in  the  sunlight, 

Showering  its  gladness  over  and  bestrewing 

The  golden  fountainhead  with  rainbow  rapture. 

— Mary  MacMillan 


SONGS  OF  A  GIKL  * 
XIX 

Within  the  little  house 

Of  my  great  love  for  you, 

This  safe  and  happy  house, 

I  sit  and  sing,  while  all  the  world  goes  by. 

*  From  Youth  Riding,  by  Mary  Carolyn  Davies.     Used  by  special  per- 
mission of  The  Macmillau  Company,  publishers. 


150  MODERN  VERSE 

Within  the  house  that  is  my  love  for  you 
No  harm  can  come,  nor  any  thought  of  fear; 
There  is  no  danger  that  can  cross  the  threshold. 

You  did  not  build  this  house 

Nor  I; 

But  God  the  Carpenter — 

— Mary  Carolyn  Davies 


PSALM  TO  MY  BELOVED 

Lo,  I  have  opened  unto  you  the  wide  gates  of  rny  being, 

And  like  a  tide  you  have  flowed  into  me. 

The  innermost  recesses  of  my  spirit  are  full  of  you,  and  all 
the  channels  of  my  soul  are  grown  sweet  with  your  pres- 
ence. 

For  you  have  brought  me  peace; 

The  peace  of  great  tranquil  waters,  and  the  quiet  of  the  sum- 
mer sea. 

Your  hands  are  filled  with  peace  as  the  noon-tide  is  filled 
with  light ;  about  your  head  is  bound  the  eternal  quiet  of 
the  stars,  and  in  your  heart  dwells  the  calm  miracle  of 
twilight. 

I  am  utterly  content. 

In  all  my  spirit  is  no  ripple  of  unrest. 

For  I  have  opened  unto  you  the  wide  gates  of  my  being 

And  like  a  tide  you  have  flowed  into  me. 

— Eunice  Tietjens 


FRIENDSHIP  AND  LOVE  151 


THE  EEFLECTION  * 

I  have  not  heard  her  voice,  nor  seen  her  face> 

Nor  touched  her  hand ; 
And  yet  some  echo  of  her  woman's  grace 

I  understand. 

I  have  no  picture  of  her  lovelihootv 

Her  smile,  her  tint; 
But  that  she  is  both  beautiful  and  good 

I  have  true  hint. 

In  all  that  my  friend  thinks  and  says,  I  see 

Her  mirror  true ; 
His  thought  of  her  is  gentle ;  she  must  be 

All  gentle  too. 

In  all  his  grief  or  laughter,  work  or  play, 

Each  mood  and  whim, 
How  brave  and  tender,  day  by  common  day, 

She  speaks  through  him! 

Therefore  I  say  I  know  her,  be  her  face 

Or  dark  or  fair — 
For  when  he  shows  his  heart 's  most  secret  place 

I  see  her  there ! 

— Christopher  Morley 


*  From  The  Rocking  Horse,  by  Christopher  Morley.     Copyright,  1919, 
George  H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 


152  MODERN  VERSE 


A  LYNMOUTH  WIDOW  * 

He  was  straight  and  strong,  and  his  eyes  were  blue 
As  the  summer  meeting  of  sky  and  sea, 
And  the  ruddy  cliffs  had  a  colder  hue 
Than  flushed  his  cheek  when  he  married  me. 

We  passed  the  porch  where  the  swallows  breed, 
"We  left  the  little  brown  church  behind, 
And  I  leaned  on  his  arm,  though  I  had  no  need, 
Only  to  feel  him  so  strong  and  kind. 

One  thing  I  never  can  quite  forget ; 

It  grips  my  throat  when  I  try  to  pray — 

The  keen  salt  smell  of  a  drying  net 

That  hung  on  the  churchyard  wall  that  day. 

He  would  have  taken  a  long,  long  grave — 
A  long,  long  grave,  for  he  stood  so  tall  .  .  . 
Oh,  God,  the  crash  of  a  breaking  wave, 
And  the  smell  of  the  nets  on  the  churchyard  wall ! 

— Amelia  Josephine  Burr 


PARTING 

Now  I  go,  do  not  weep,  woman — 
Woman,  do  not  weep ; 

*  From  In  Deep  Places,  by  Amelia  Josephine  Burr.     Copyright,  1914, 
George  H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 


FRIENDSHIP  AND  LOVE  153 

Though  I  go  from  you  to  die, 

We  shall  both  lie  down 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  sleep. 

Now  I  go,  do  not  weep,  woman — 
Woman,  do  not  weep ; 
Earth  is  our  mother  and  our  tent  the  sky. 
Though  I  go  from  you  to  die, 
We  shall  both  lie  down 
At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  sleep. 

— Alice  Corbin  Henderson 


THE  PENALTY  OF  LOVE 

If  Love  should  count  you  worth}',  and  should  deign 
One  day  to  seek  your  door  and  be  your  guest, 
Pause !  ere  you  draw  the  bolt  and  bid  him  rest, 

If  in  your  old  content  you  would  remain. 

For  not  alone  he  enters :  in  his  train 
Are  angels  of  the  mists,  the  lonely  quest, 
Dreams  of  the  unfulfilled  and  unpossessed, 

And  sorrow,  and  Life's  immemorial  pain. 

He  wakes  desires  you  never  may  forget, 
He  shows  you  stars  you  never  saw  before, 
He  makes  you  share  with  him,  for  evermore, 

The  burden  of  the  world's  divine  regret. 

How  wise  were  you  to  open  not! — and  yet, 

How  poor  if  you  should  turn  him  from  the  door. 

— Sidney  Royse  Lysaght 


BARTER  * 

Life  has  loveliness  to  sell — 

All  beautiful  and  splendid  things, 

Blue  waves  whitened  on  a  cliff, 
Climbing  fire  that  sways  and  sings, 

And  children's  faces  looking  up 

Holding  wonder  like  a  cup. 

Life  has  loveliness  to  sell — 

Music  like  a  curve  of  gold, 
Scent  of  pine  trees  in  the  rain, 

Eyes  that  love  you,  arms  that  hold, 
And  for  your  spirit's  still  delight, 
Holy  thoughts  that  star  the  night. 

Spend  all  you  have  for  loveliness, 

Buy  it  and  never  count  the  cost, 
For  one  white  singing  hour  of  peace 

Count  many  a  year  of  strife  well  lost, 
And  for  a  breath  of  ecstasy 
Give  all  you  have  been  or  could  be. 

— Sara  Teasdale 


TIME,  YOU  OLD  GYPSY  MAN  * 

Time,  you  old  gypsy  man, 
Will  you  not  stay, 

*  From  Love  Songs,  by  Sara  Teasdale.     Used  by  special  permission  of 
The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 

*  From  Poems,  by  Ralph  Hodgson.     Used  by  special  permission  of  The 
Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 

157 


158  MODERN  VERSE 

Put  up  your  caravan 
Just  for  one  day  ? 

All  things  I'll  give  you 
Will  you  be  my  guest, 
Bells  for  your  jennet 
Of  silver  the  best. 
Goldsmiths  shall  beat  you 
A  great  golden  ring. 
Peacocks  shall  bow  to  you, 
Little  boys  sing. 
Oh,  and  sweet  girls  will 
Festoon  you  with  may, 
Time,  you  old  gypsy, 
Why  hasten  away? 
Last  week  in  Babylon, 
Last  night  in  Rome, 
Morning,  and  in  the  crush 
Under  Paul's  dome; 
Undei*  Paul's  dial 
You  tighten  your  rein — 
Only  a  moment, 
And  off  once  again  •, 
Off  to  some  city 
Now  blind  in  the  womb, 
Off  to  another 
Ere  that's  in  the  tomb. 

Time,  you  old  gypsy  man, 

Will  you  not  stay, 
Put  up  your  caravan 

Just  for  one  day? 

— Ralph  Hodgson 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  159 


SONNET 

There  was  an  Indian,  who  had  known  no  change, 

Who  strayed  content  along  a  sunlit  beach 
Gathering  shells.     He  heard  a  sudden  strange 

Commingled  noise ;  looked  up ;  and  gasped  for  speech. 
For  in  the  bay,  where  nothing  was  before, 

Moved  on  the  sea,  by  magic,  huge  canoes, 
With  bellying  cloths  on  poles,  and  not  one  oar, 

And  fluttering  colored  signs  and  clambering  crews. 

And  he,  in  fear,  this  naked  man  alone, 
His  fallen  hands  forgetting  all  their  shells, 

His  lips  gone  pale,  knelt  low  behind  a  stone, 
And  stared,  and  saw,  and  did  not  understand, 

Columbus 's  doom-burdened  caravels 

Slant  to  the  shore,  and  all  their  seamen  land. 

f.  C.  Squire 


PROVINCETOWN 

All  summer  in  the  close-locked  streets  the  crowd 
Elbows  its  way  past  glittering  shops  to  strains 
Of  noisy  rag-time,  men  and  girls,  dark  skinned, — 
From  warmer  foreign  waters  they  have  come 
To  our  New  England.     Purring  like  sleek  cats 
The  cushioned  motors  of  the  rich  crawl  through 
While  black-haired  babies  scurry  to  the  curb: 
Pedro,  Maria,  little  Gabriel 


160  MODERN  VERSE 

Whose  red  bandana  mothers  selling  fruit 
Have  this  in  common  with  the  fresh  white  caps 
Of  those  first  immigrants — courage  to  leave 
Familiar  hearths  and  build  new  memories. 

Blood  of  their  blood  who  shaped  these  sloping  roofs 
And  low  arched  doorways,  laid  the  cobble  stones 
Not  meant  for  motors, — you  and  I  rejoice 
When  roof  and  spire  sink  deep  into  the  night 
And  all  the  little  streets  reach  out  their  arms 
To  be  received  into  the  salt-drenched   dark. 
Then  Provincetown  comes  to  her  own  again, 
Draws  round  her  like  a  cloak  that  shelters  her 
From  too  swift  changes  of  the  passing  years 
The  dunes,  the  sea,  the  silent  hilltop  grounds 
Where  solemn  groups  of  leaning  headstones  hold 
Perpetual  reunion  of  her  dead. 

At  dusk  we  feel  our  way  along  the  wharf 

That  juts  into  the  harbor:  anchored  ships 

With  lifting  prow  and  slowly  rocking  mast 

Ink  out  their  profiles;  fishing  dories  scall 

With  muffled  lamps  that  glimmer  through  the  spray; 

We  hear  the  water  plash  among  the  piers 

Rotted  with  moss,  long  after  sunset  stay 

To  watch  the  dim  sky-changes  ripple  down 

The  length  of  quiet  ocean  to  our  feet 

Till  on  the  sea  rim  rising  like  a  world 

Bigger  than  ours,  and  laying  bare  the  ships 

In  shadowy  stillness,  swells  the  yellow  moon. 

Between  this  blue  intensity  of  sea 

And  rolling  dunes  of  white-hot  sand  that  burn 

All  day  across  a  clean  salt  wilderness 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  161 

On  shores  grown  sacred  as  a  place  of  prayer, 
Shine  bright  invisible  footsteps  of  a  band 
Of  firm-lipped  men  and  women  who  endured 
Partings  from  kindred,  hardship,  famine,  death, 
And  won  for  us  three  hundred  years  ago 
A  reverent  proud  freedom  of  the  soul. 

— Marie  Louise  Hersey 


AMERICA 

Up  and  down  he  goes 

with  terrible,  reckless  strides, 

flaunting  great  lamps 

with  joyous  swings — 

one  to  the  East 

and  one  to  the  West — 

and  flaunting  two  words 

in  a  thunderous  call 

that  thrills  the  hearts  of  all  enemies: 

All,  One,  All,  One;  All,  One;  All,  One! 

Beware  that  queer  wild  wonderful  boy 

and  his  playground ;  don 't  go  near ! 

All,  One,  All,  One;  All,  One;  All,  One; 

Up  and  down  he  goes. 

— Alfred  Kreymborg. 


EECESSIONAL 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old, 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle-line, 

Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 


162  MODERN  VERSE 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies ; 

The  captains  and  the  kings  depart: 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 

An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away ; 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire: 
Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 

Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 
Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe, 

Such  boastings  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard, 

All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

Ar.d  guarding,  calls  not  Thee  to  guard, 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word — 

Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord ! 

— Eudyard  Kipling 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  163 


IF 


If  you  can  keep  your  head  when  all  about  you 

Are  losing  theirs  and  blaming  it  on  you, 
If  you  can  trust  yourself  when  all  men  doubt  you, 

But  make  allowance  for  their  doubting  too; 
If  you  can  wait  and  not  be  tired  by  waiting, 

Or  being  lied  about,  don't  deal  in  lies, 
Or  being  hated  don't  give  way  to  hating, 

And  yet  don't  look  too  good,  nor  talk  too  wise: 

If  you  can  dream — and  not  make  dreams  your  master ; 

If  you  can  think — and  not  make  thoughts  your  aim, 
If  you  can  meet  with  Triumph  and  Disaster 

And  treat  those  two  impostors  just  the  same ; 
If  you  can  bear  to  hear  the  truth  you've  spoken 

Twisted  by  knaves  to  make  a  trap  for  fools, 
Or  watch  the  things  you  gave  your  life  to,  broken, 

And  stoop  and  build  'em  up  with  worn-out  tools: 

If  you  can  make  one  heap  of  all  your  winnings 

And  risk  it  on  one  turn  of  pitch-and-toss, 
And  lose,  and  start  again  at  your  beginnings 

And  never  breathe  a  word  about  your  loss; 
If  you  can  force  your  heart  and  nerve  and  sinew 

To  serve  your  turn  long  after  they  are  gone, 
And  so  hold  on  when  there  is  nothing  in  you 

Except  the  Will  which  says  to  them:  "Hold  on!" 

If  you  can  talk  with  crowds  and  keep  your  virtue, 
Or  walk  with  Kings — nor  IOSP  the  common  touch, 
If  neither  foes  nor  loving  friends  can  hurt  you, 


164  MODERN  VERSE 

If  all  men  count  with  you,  but  none  too  mucn ; 
If  you  can  fill  the  unforgiving  minute 

"With  sixty  seconds'  worth  of  distance  run, 
Yours  is  the  Earth  and  everything  that's  in  it, 

And — which  is  more — you'll  be  a  Man,  my  son! 

— Rudyard  KipUng 


COUEAGE 

Courage  is  but  a  word,  and  yet,  of  words, 
The  only  sentinel  of  permanence; 
The  ruddy  watch-fire- of  cold  winter  days, 
We  steal  its  comfort,  lift  our  weary  swords, 
And  on.     For  faith — without  it — has  no  sense; 
And  love  to  wind  of  doubt  and  tremor  sways; 
And  life  forever  quaking  marsh  must  tread. 

Laws  give  it  not,  before  it  prayer  will  blush, 
Hope  has  it  not,  nor  pride  of  being  true. 
'Tis  the  mysterious  soul  which  never  yields, 
But  hales  us  on  and  on  to  breast  the  rush 
Of  all  the  fortunes  we  shall  happen  through. 
And  when  Death  calls  across  his  shadowy  fields — 
Dying,  it  answers:     "Here!     I  am  not  dead!" 

— John  Galsworthy 


PEAYEE 

God,  though  this  life  is  but  a  wraith. 
Although  we  know  not  what  we  use, 

Although  we  grope  with  little  faith, 
Give  me  the  heart  to  fight — and  lose. 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  165 

Ever  insurgent  let  me  be, 

Make  me  more  daring  than  devout; 
From  sleek  contentment  keep  me  free, 

And  fill  me  with  a  bouyant  doubt. 

Open  my  eyes  to  visions  girt 

With  beauty,  and   with  wonder  lit — • 
But  let  me  always  see  the  dirt, 

And  all  that  spawn  and  die  in  it. 

Open  my  ears  to  music;  let 

Me  thrill  with  Spring's  first  flutes  and  drums — 
But  never  let  me  dare  forget 

The  bitter  ballads  of  the  slums. 

From  compromise  and  things  half-done, 
Keep  me,  with  stern  and  stubborn  pride; 

And  when,  at  last,  the  fight  is  won 
God,  keep  me  still  unsatisfied. 

— Louis  Untermeyer 


A  CREED 

(To  Mr.  David  Lubin) 

There  is  a  destiny  that  makes  us  brothers; 

None  goes  his  way  alone: 
All  that  we  send  into  the  lives  of  others 

Comes  back  into  our  own. 


166  MODERN  VERSE 

I  care  not  what  his  temples  or  his  creeds, 

One  thing  holds  firm  and  fast — 
That  into  his  fateful  heap  of  days  and  deeds 

The  soul  of  a  man  is  cast. 

— Edwin  Markham 


THE  GREAT  LOVER 

I  have  been  so  great  a  lover:  filled  my  days 

So   proudly   with   the   splendor  of   Love's   praise, 

The  pain,  the  calm,   and  the   astonishment, 

Desire  illimitable,  and  still  content, 

And  all  dear  names  men  use,  to  cheat  despair, 

For  the  perplexed  and  viewless  streams  that  bear 

Our  hearts  at  random  down  the  dark  of  life. 

Now,  ere  the  unthinking  silence  on  that  strife 

Steals  down,  I  would  cheat  drowsy  Death  so  far. 

My  night  shall  be  remembered  for  a  star 

That  outshone  all  the  suns  of  all  men's  days. 

Shall  I  not  crown  them  with  immortal  praise 

Whom  I  have  loved,  who  have  given  me,  dared  with  me 

High  secrets,  and  in  darkness  knelt  to  see 

The  inenarrable  godhead  of  delight? 

Love  is  a  flame; — we  have  beaconed  the  world's  night. 

A  city: — and  we  have  built  it,  these  and  I. 

An  emperor: — we  have  taught  the  world  to  die. 

So,  for  their  sakes  I  loved,  ere  I  go  hence, 

And  the  high  cause  of  Love's  magnificence, 

And  to  keep  loyalties  young,  I'll  write  those  names 

Golden  forever,  eagles,  crying  flames, 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  167 

And  set  them  as  a  banner,  that  men  may  know, 
To  dare  the  generations,  burn,  and  blow 
Out  on  the  wind  of  Time,  shining  and  streaming  .  .  . 
These  I  have  loved: 

White  plates  and  cups,  clean-gleaming. 
Ringed  with  blue  lines;  and  feathery,  faery  dust; 
Wet  roofs,  beneath  the  lamp-light ;  the  strong  crust 
Of  friendly  bread ;  and  many  tasting  food ; 
Rainbows ;  and  the  blue  bitter  smoke  of  wood ; 
And  radiant  raindrops  couching  in  cool  flowers ; 
And  flowers  themselves,  that  sway  through  sunny  hours, 
Dreaming  of  moths  that  drink  them  under  the  moon; 
Then,  the  cool  kindliness  of  sheets,  that  soon 
Smooth  away  trouble ;  and  the  rough  male  kiss 
Of  blankets;  grainy  wood;  live  hair  that  is 
Shining  and  free ;  blue-massing  clouds ;  the  keen 
Unpassioned  beauty  of  a  great  machine ; 
The  benison  of  hot  water;  furs  to  touch; 
The  good  smell  of  old  clothes;  and  other  such — 
The  comfortable  smell  of  friendly  fingers, 
Hair's  fragrance,  and  the  musty  reek  that  lingers 
About  dead  leaves  and  last  year's  ferns.  .  .  . 

Dear  names, 

And  thousand  other  throng  to  me !     Royal  flames ; 
Sweet  water's  dimpling  laugh  from  tap  or  spring; 
Holes  in  the  ground;  and  voices  that  do  sing; 
Voices  in  laughter,  too;  and  body's  pain, 
Soon  turned  to  peace;  and  the  deep-panting  train; 
Firm  sands;  the  dulling  edge  of  foam 
That  browns  and  dwindles  as  the  wave  goes  home; 
And  washen  stones,  gay  for  an  hour;  the  cold 
Graveness  of  iron;  moist  black  earthen  mold; 
Sleep;  and  high  places;  footprints  in  the  dew; 
And  oaks;  and  brown  horse-chestnuts,  glossy-new; 


168  MODERN  VERSE 

And  new-peeled  sticks;  and  shining  pools  on  grass;— 

All  these  have  been  my  loves.     And  these  shall  pass, 

Whatever  passes  not,  in  the  great  hour, 

Nor  all  my  passion,  all  my  prayers,  have  power 

To  hold  them  with  me  through  the  gate  of  Death. 

They'll  play  deserter,  turn  with  the  traitor  breath, 

Break  the  high  bond  we  made,  and  sell  Love's  trust 

And  sacramental   covenant  to  the  dust. 

— Oh,  never  a  doubt  but,  somewhere,  I  shall  wake, 

And  give  what's  left  of  love  again,  and  make 

New  friends,  now  strangers.  .  .  . 

But  the  best  I've  known, 

Stays  here,  and  changes,  breaks,  grows  old,  is  blown 
About  the  winds  of  the  world,  and  fades  from  brains 
Of  living  men,  and  dies. 

Nothing  remains. 

O  dear  my  loves,  O  faithless,  once  again 

This  one  last  gift  I  give:  that  after  men 

Shall  know,  and  later  lovers,  far-removed, 

Praise  you,  "All  these  were  lovely";  say,  "He  loved." 

Mataiea,  1914. 

— Rupert  Brooke 


OIFTS 

God  does  not  give  us,  when  our  youth  is  done, 

Any  such   dower  as  we  thought  should  be: 

We  are  not  strong,  nor  crowned  with  moon  or  sun; 

We  are  not  gods  nor  conquerors :  life 's  sea 

Has  not  rolled  back  to  let  our  feet  pass  through  . 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  162 

And  if  one  great  desire,  long-hoped,  came  true — 

Some  gift  long-hungered  for,  some  starry  good, 

Some  crowning  we  desired, 

It  had  lost  all  its  pageant-wonderhood : 

A  wonted  thing,  enveiled  no  more  in  flame, 

Dully  it  came — 

Its  winning  has  not  made  our  feet  less  tired. 

"We  are  so  near  the  same 

Our  mirrors  saw  in  youth ! 

Not  very  wise :  in  truth 

Not  nobler  than  we  were  those  years  ago; 

We  have  to  show 

Only  a  handful  of  such  little  things 

As  our  high-thoughted  youth 

Had  named  of  little  worth. 

Only  .  .  .  the  gift  to  feel 

In  little  looks  of  praise, 

In  words,  in  sunny  days, 

A  pleasantness,  a  mirth — 

Joy  in  a  bird 's  far  wings, 

Pleasure  in  flowers  breaking  out  of  earth, 

In  a  child's  laughter,  in  a  neighbor's  smile; 

And  in   all   quiet  things 

Peace  for  awhile. 

And  one  more  gift — to  smile,  content  to  see — 
Ay,  to  be  very  glad  seeing — alight  on  high 
The  stars  we  wanted  for  our  jewelry 
Still  clear  ashine  .  .  .  still  in  the  sky. 

— Margaret  Widdemer 


170  MODERN  VERSE 

RICHARD  CORY 

i 
Whenever  Richard  Cory  went  down  town, 

We  people  on  the  pavement  looked  at  him : 
He  was  a  gentleman  from  sole  to  crown, 

Clean  favored,  and  imperially  slim. 

And  he  was  always  quietly  arrayed, 
And  he  was  always  human  when  he  talked; 

But  still  he  fluttered  pulses  when  he  said, 

"Good-morning,"  and  he  glittered  when  he  walked. 

And  he  was  rich — yes,  richer  than  a  king, 
And  admirably  schooled  in  every  grace: 

In  fine,  we  thought  that  he  was  everything 
To  make  us  wish  that  we  were  in  his  place. 

So  on  we  worked,  and  waited  for  the  light, 
And  went  without  the  meat  and  cursed  the  bread ; 

And  Richard  Cory,  one  calm  summer  night, 
Went  home  and  put  a  bullet  through  his  head. 
— Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

A  FARMER  REMEMBERS  LINCOLN  * 

"Lincoln?— 

Well,  I  was  in  the  old  Second  Maine, 

The  first  regiment  in  Washington  from  the  Pine  Tree  State. 

Of  course  I  didn't  get  the  butt  of  the  clip; 

We  was  there  for  guardin'  Washington — 

We  was  all  green. 

*  "Reprinted  with  permission  from  Grenstone  Poems,  by  Witter  Bynner. 
Copyright,   1917,   Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  171 

"I  ain't  never  ben  to  but  one  theater  in  my  life — 

I  didn't  know  how  to  behave. 

I  ain't  never  ben  since. 

I  can  see  as  plain  as  niy  hat  the  box  where  he  sat  in 

When  he  was  shot. 

I  can  tell  you,  sir,  there  was  a  panic 

When  we  found  our  President  was  in  the  shape  he  was  in! 

Never  saw  a  soldier  in  the  world  but  what  liked  him. 

"Yes,  sir.     His  looks  was  kind  o'  hard  to  forget. 

He  was  a  spare  man, 

An  old  farmer. 

Everything  was  all  right,  you  know, 

But  he  wan't  a  smooth-appearin'  man  at  all — 

Not  in  no  ways; 

Thin-faced,  long-necked, 

And  a  swellin'  kind  of  a  thick  lip  like. 

"And  he  was  a  jolly  old  fellow — always  cheerful; 

He  wan't  so  high  but  the  boys  could  talk  to  him  their  own 

ways. 

While  I  was  servin'  at  the  Hospital 
He'd  come  in  and  say,  'You  look  nice  in  here,' 
Praise  us  up,  you  know. 
And  he'd  bend  over  and  talk  to  the  boys — 
And  he'd  talk  so  good  to  'em — so  close — 
That's  why  I  call  him  a  farmer. 
I  don't  mean  that  everything  about  him  wan't   all  right, 

you  understand, 

It's  just — well,  I  was  a  farmer — 
And  he  was  my  neighbor,  anybody's  neighbor. 

"I  guess  even  you  young  folks  would  'a'  liked  him." 

— Witter  Bynner 


172  MODERN  VERSE 


SUNSET  * 

Behold  where  Night  clutches  the  cup  of  heaven 
And  quaffs  the  beauty  of  the  world  away ! 
Lo,  his  first  draught  is  all  of  dazzling  day ; 

The  next  he  fills  with  the  red  wine  of  even 

And  drinks;  then  of  the  twilight's  amber,  seven 
Deep  liquid  hues,  seven  times,  superb  in  ray, 
He  fills— and  drinks ;  the  last,  a  mead  pale-gray 

Leaves  the  black  beaker  gemmed  with  starry  levin. 

Even  so  does  Time  quaff  our  mortality ! 

First,  of  the  effervescing  blood  and  blush 
Of  virgin  years,  then  of  maturity 

The  deeper  glow,  then  of  the  pallid  hush 
"Where  only  the  eyes  still  glitter,  till  even  they — 
After  a  pause — melt  in  immenser  day. 

— Percy  MacKaye. 


SILENCE  * 

I  have  known  the  silence  of  the  stars  and  of  the  sea, 

And  the  silence  of  the  city  when  it  pauses, 

And  the  silence  of  a  man  and  a  maid, 

And  the  silence  for  which  music  alone  finds  the  word, 

And  the  silence  of  the  woods  before  the  winds  of  spring 

begin, 
And  the  silence  of  the  sick 

*  From  The  Sistine  Eve,  by  Percy  MacKaye.     Used  by  special  permis- 
sion of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 

*  From  Songs  and  Satires,  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters.     Used  by  special 
permission  of  the  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  173 

When  their  eyes  roam  about  the  room. 

And  I  ask :     For  the  depths 

Of  what  use  is  language? 

A  beast  of  the  fields  moans  a  few  times 

When  death  takes  its  young. 

And  we  are  voiceless  in  the  presence  of  realities — • 

We  cannot  speak. 

A  curious  boy  asks  an  old  soldier 

Sitting  in  front  of  the  grocery  store, 

"How  did  you  lose  your  leg?" 

And  the  old  soldier  is  struck  with  silence, 

Or  his  mind  flies  away 

Because  he  cannot  concentrate  it  on  Gettysburg. 

It  comes  back  jocosely 

And  he  says,  "A  bear  bit  it  off." 

And  the  boy  wonders,  while  the  old  soldier 

Dumbly,  feebly  lives  over 

The  flashes  of  guns,  the  thunder  of  cannon, 

The  shrieks  of  the  slain, 

And  himself  lying  on  the  ground, 

And  the  hospital  surgeons,  the  knives, 

And  the  long  days  in  bed. 

But  if  he  could  describe  it  all 

He  would  be  an  artist. 

But  if  he  were  an  artist  there  would  be  deeper  wounds 

Which  he  could  not  describe. 

There  is  the  silence  of  a  great  hatred, 

And  the  silence  of  a  great  love, 

And  the  silence  of  a  deep  peace  of  mind, 

And  the  silence  of  an  embittered  friendship. 

There  is  the  silence  of  a  spiritual  crisis, 

Through  which  your  soul,  exquisitely  tortured, 

Comes  with  visions  not  to  be  uttered 


!74  MODERN  VERSE 

Into  a  realm  of  higher  life. 

And  the  silence  of  the  gods  who  understand  each  other  with- 

out  speech. 

There  is  the  silence  of  defeat. 
There  is  the  silence  of  those  unjustly  punished; 
And  the  silence  of  the  dying  whose  hand 
Suddenly  grips  yours. 

There  is  the  silence  between  father  and  son, 
When  the  father  cannot  explain  his  life, 
Even  though  he  be  misunderstood  for  it. 

There  is  the  silence  that  comes  between  husband  and  wife. 

There  is  the  silence  of  those  who  have  failed ; 

And  the  vast  silence  that  covers 

Broken  nations  and  vanquished  leaders. 

There  is  the  silence  of  Lincoln, 

Thinking  of  the  poverty  of  his  youth. 

And  the  silence  of  Napoleon 

After  "Waterloo. 

And  the  silence  of  Jeanne  d'Arc 

Saying  amid  the  flames,  "Blessed  Jesus" — 

Revealing  in  two  words  all  sorrow,  all  hope. 

And  there  is  the  silence  of  age, 

Too  full  of  wisdom  for  the  tongue  to  utter  it 

In  words  intelligible   to  those  who  have  not  lived 

The  great  range  of  life. 

And  there  is  the  silence  of  the  dead. 

If  we  who  are  in  life  cannot  speak 

Of  profound  experiences, 

Why  do  you  marvel  that  the  dead 

Do  not  tell  you  of  death  ? 

Their  silence  shall  be  interpreted 

As  we  approach  them. 

— Edgar  Lee  Masters 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  175 


THE  COWBOY'S  DEE  AM  * 

Last  night  as  I  lay  on  the  prairie, 
And  looked  at  the  stars  in  the  sky, 
I  wondered  if  ever  a  cowboy 
Would  drift  to  that  sweet  by  and  by. 

Roll  on,  roll  on ; 

Roll  on,  little  dogies,  roll  on,  roll  on, 

Roll  on,  roll  on ; 

Roll  on,  little  dogies,  roll  on. 

The  road  to  that  bright,  happy  region 
Is  a  dim  narrow  trail,  so  they  say ; 
But  the  broad  one  that  leads  to  perdition 
Is  posted  and  blazed  all  the  way. 

They  say  there  will  be  a  great  round-up, 
And  cowboys,  like  dogies,  will  stand, 
To  be  marked  by  the  Riders  of  Judgment 
Who  are  posted  and  know  every  brand. 

I  know  there's  many  a  stray  cowboy 
Who'll  be  lost  at  the  great,  final  sale, 
When  he  might  have  gone  in  the  green  pastures 
Had  he  known  of  the  dim,  narrow  trail. 

I  wonder  if  ever  a  cowboy 
Stood  ready  for  that  Judgment  Day, 
And  could  say  to  the  Boss  of  the  Riders, 
"I'm  ready,  come  drive  me  away." 

*  Sung  to  the  air  of  My  Bonnie  Lies  Over  the  Ocean. 


176  MODERN  VERSE 

For  they,  like  the  cows  that  are  locoed, 

Stampede  at  the  sight  of  a  hand, 

Are  dragged  with  a  rope  to  the  round-up, 

Or  get  marked  with  some  crooked  man's  brand. 

And  I'm  scared  that  I'll  be  a  stray  yearling,— 
A  maverick,  unbranded  on  high, — 
And  get  cut  in  the  bunch  with  the  ''rustics" 
When  the  Boss  of  the  Riders  goes  by. 

For  they  tell  of  another  big  owner 
Who's  ne'er  overstocked,  so  they  say, 
But  who  always  makes  room  for  the  sinner 
Who  drifts  from  the  straight,  narrow  way. 

They  say  he  will  never  forget  you, 
That  he  knows  every  action  and  look; 
So,  for  safety,  you'd  better  get  branded, 
Have  your  name  in  the  great  Tally  Book. 


GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH  ENTERS  INTO 
HEAVEN  * 


[Bass  drum  beaten  loudly] 
Booth  led  boldly  with  his  big  bass  drum — 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 

*  From  General  William,  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven  and  Other  Poems, 
by  Vachel  Lindsay.  Used  by  special  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Com- 
pany, publishers. 

(To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  The  Blood  of  the  Lamb  with  indicated 
instrument) 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  177 

The  Saints  smiled  gravely  and  they  said:  "He's  come." 

(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 

Walking  lepers  followed,  rank  on  rank, 

Lurching  bravoes  from  the  ditches  dank, 

Drabs  from  the  alleyways  and  drug  fiends  pale — 

Minds  still  passion-ridden,  soul-powers  frail: — 

Vermin-eaten  saints  with  mouldy  breath, 

Unwashed  legions  with  the  ways  of  Death — 

(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 

[Banjos] 

Every  slum  had  sent  its  half-a-score 
The  round  world  over.     (Booth  had  groaned  for  more.) 
Every  banner  that  the  wide  world  flies 
Bloomed  with   glory   and  transcendent   dyes. 
Big-voiced  lasses  made  their  banjos  bang, 
Tranced,  fanatical,  they  shrieked  and  sang: — 
"Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?" 
Hallelujah !     It  was  queer  to  see 
Bull-necked  convicts  with  that  land  made  free. 
Loons  with  trumpets  blowed  a  blare,  blare,  blare 
On,  on  upward  thro'  the  golden  air! 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 


II 

[Bass  drum  slower  and  softer] 
Booth  died  blind  and  still  by  Faith  he  trod, 
Eyes  still  dazzled  by  the  ways  of  God. 
Booth  led  boldly,  and  he  looked  the  chief, 
Eagle  countenance  in  sharp  relief, 
Beard  a-flying,  air  of  high  command 


178  MODERN  VERSE 

Unabated  in  that  holy  land. 

[Sweet  flute  music] 

Jesus  came  from  out  the  court-house  door, 
Stretched  his  hands  above  the  passing  poor. 
Booth  saw  not,  but  led  his  queer  ones  there 
Eound  and  round  the  mighty  court-house  square. 
Yet  in  an  instant  all  that  blear  review 
Marched  on  spotless,  clad  in  raiment  new. 
The  lame  were  straightened,  withered  limbs  uncurled 
And  blind  eyes  opaned  on  a  new,  sweet  world. 

[Bass  drum  louder] 

Drabs  and  vixens  in  a  flash  made  whole ! 
Gone  was  the  weasel-head,  the  snout,  the  jowl  I 
Sages  and  .sibyls  now,  and  athletes  clean, 
Rulers  of  empires,  and  of  forests  green! 

[Grand  chorus  of  all  instruments.     Tambourines  to  ihe 

foreground.] 

The  hosts  were  sandalled,  and  their  wings  were  fire! 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
But  their  noise  played  havoc  with  the  angel-choir. 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
0,  shout  Salvation !     It  was  good  to  see 
Kings  and  Princes  by  the  Lamb  set  free. 
The  banjos  rattled  and  the  tambourines 
Jing-jing-jingled  in  the  hands  of  Queens. 

[Reverently  sung,  no  instruments] 
And  when  Booth  halted  by  the  curb  for  prayer 
He   saw   his   Master  thro'   the  flag-filled  air. 
Christ  came  gently  with  a  robe  and  crown 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  179 

For  Booth  the  soldier,  while  the  throng  knelt  down. 
He  saw  King  Jesus.     They  were  face  to  face, 
And  he  knelt  a-weeping  in  that  holy  place. 
Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 

— Vachel  Lindsay 

THE  DEVIL* 

Along  de  road  from  Bord  a  Plouffe 

To  Kaz-a-baz-u-a 

Were  poplar  trees  lak  sojers  stan', 
An'  all  de  Ian'  is  pleasan'  Ian', 
In  off  de  road  dere  leev's  a  man 
Call'  Louis  Desjardins. 

An'  Louis,  w'en  he  firse  begin 

To  work  hees  leetle  place, 
He  work  so  hard  de  neighbors  say, 
"Unless  he  tak's  de  easy  way 
Dat  feller's  sure  to  die  some  day, 

We  see  it  on  hees  face. ' ' 

'T  was  lak  a  swamp,  de  farm  he  got, 

De  water  ev'ryw'ere — 
Might  drain  her  off  as  tight  as  a  drum. 
An'  back  dat  water  is  botfn'  to  come 
In  less  'n  a  day  or  two — ba  Gum ! 

'T  would  mak'  de  angel  swear. 

So  Louis  t  'ink  of  de  bimeby, 
If  he  leev  so  long  as  dat, 
"W'en  he's  ole  an'  blin'  an'  mebbe  deaf, 

*  From  the  Poetical  Works  of  William  Henry  Drummond.     Courtesy 
of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  Publishers,  New  York  and  London. 


180  MODERN  VERSE 

All  alone  on  de  house  hese  'f , 
No  frien',  no  money,  no  not 'ing  lef ' , 
An'  poor — can't  kip  a  cat. 

So  wan  of  de  night  on  winter  tarn, 

W  'en  Louis  is  on  hees  bed, 
He  say  out  loud  lak  a  crazy  man, 
"  I  'm  sick  of  tryin '  to  clear  dis  Ian ', 
Work  any  harder  I  can't  stan', 

Or  it  will  kill  me  dead. 

"Now  if  de  devil  would  show  hese'f 
An'  say  to  me,  "Tiens!  Louis! 

Hard  tarn  an'  work  she's  at  an'  en', 

You'll  leev'  lak  a  Grand  Seigneur,  ma  frien', 

If  only  you'll  be  ready  w'en 

I  want  you  to  come  wit '  me, ' 

"I'd  say,  'Yass,  yass — 'maudit!  w'at's  dat?" 

An'  he  see  de  devil  dere — 
Brimstone,  ev'ryt'ing  bad  dat  smell, 
You  know  right  away  he's  come  from — well, 
De  place  I  never  was  care  to  tell — 

An'  wcarin'  hees  long  black  hair, 

Lak  election  man,  de  kin'  I  mean 

You  see  aroun '  church  door, 
Spreadin'  hese'f  on  great  beeg  speech 
'Bout  poor  man's  goin'  some  day  be  reech, 
But  dat's  w'ere  it  alway  come  de  heetch, 

For  poor  man's  alway  poor. 

De  only  diff' rence — me — I  see 

'Tween  devil  an '  long-hair  man 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  181 

It's  hard  to  say,  but  I  know  it's  true, 
Wen  devil  promise  a  t'ing  to  do 
Dere's  no  mistak'  he  kip  it  too — 
I  hope  you  understan '. 

So  de  devil  spik,  ' '  You  're  not  content, 

An'  want  to  be  reech,  Louis — 
All  right,  you'll  have  plaintee,  never  fear 
No  wan  can  beat  you  far  an'  near, 
An'  I'll  leave  you  alone  for  t'orty  year, 

An'  den  you  will  come  wit'  me. 

"Be  careful  now — it's  beeg  contrac'. 

So  mebbe  it 's  bes '  go  slow : 
For  me — de  promise  I  mak'  to  you 
Is  good  as  de  bank  Riviere  du  Loup ; 
For  you — w'enever  de  tarn  is  due, 

Ba  tender!  you  got  to  go." 

Louis  try  hard  to  tak '  hees  tarn 

But  w'en  he  see  de  fall 
Comin'  along  in  a  week  or  so, 
All  aroun'  heem  de  rain  an'  snow 
An'  pork  on  de  bar'l  runnin'  low, 

He  don't  feel  good  at  all. 

An'  w'en  he  t'ink  of  de  swampy  farm 

An'  gettin'  up  winter  night, 
Watchin'  de  stove  if  de  win'  get  higher 
For  fear  de  chimley  go  on  fire, 
It's  makin'  poor  Louis  feel  so  tire 

He  tell  de  devil,  ''All  right." 

"Correct,"  dat  feller  say  right  away, 


182  MODERN  VERSE 

"I'll  only  say,  Au  revoir," 
An'  out  of  de  winder  he's  goin'  pouf ! 
Beeg  nose,  long  hair,  short  tail,  an'  hoof 
Off  on  de  road  to  Bord  a  Plouffe 

Crossin'  de  reever  dere. 

Wen  Louis  get  up  nex'  day,  ma  frien', 

Dere's  lot  of  devil  sign — 
Bar!  o'  pork  an'  keg  o'  rye, 
Bag  o'  potato  ten  foot  high, 
Pile  o '  wood  nearly  touch  de  sky, 

"Was  some  o'  de  t'ing  he  fin'. 

Suit  o'  clothes  would  have  cos'  a  lot 

An'  ev'ryt'ing  I  dunno, 
Trotter  horse  w'en  he  want  to  ride 
Eatin'  away  on  de  barn  outside, 
Stan'  all  day  if  he's  never  tied, 

An'  watch  an'  chain  also. 

An'  swamp  dat's  bodder  heem  many  tarn, 

"Were  is  dat  swamp  to-day? 
Don't  care  if  you're  huiitin'  up  an'  down 
You  won't  fin'  not 'ing  but  medder  groun', 
An'  affer  de  summer  come  aroun' 
W  'ere  can  you  see  such  hay  ? 

Wall!  de  year  go  by,  an'  Louis  leev' 

Widout  no  work  to  do, 
Rise  w'en  he  lak  on  winter  day, 
Fin'  all  de  snow  is  clear  away, 
No  fuss,  no  not 'ing,  dere's  de  sleigh. 

An'  trotter  waitin'  too. 


THOUGHT  AND  FANG'S  183 

"Wen  forty  year  is  nearly  t'roo 

An'  devil's  not  come  back 
'Course  Louis  say,  ' '  Wall !  he  forget 
Or  t  'ink  de  tarn 's  not  finish  yet ; 
I'll  tak'  ma  chance  an'  never  fret," 

But  dat's  w'ere  he  mak'  niistak'. 

For  on  a  dark  an '  stormy  night 

Wen  Louis  is  sittin'  dere, 
Affer  he  fassen  up  de  door 
De  devil  come  as  he  come  before, 
Lookin'  de  sam'  only  leetle  more, 

For  takin'  heem — you  know  w'ere. 

"Asseyez  vous,  sit  down,  ma  frien', 

Bad  night  be  on  de  road ; 
You  come  long  way  an'  should  be  tire — 
Jus'  wait  an'  mebbe  I  feex  de  fire — 
Tak'  off  your  clothes  for  mak'  dem  driery 

Dey  mus'  be  heavy  load." 

Dat's  how  poor  Louis  Desjardins 

Talk  to  de  devil,  sir — 
Den  say,  "Try  leetle  w'isky  blanc, 
Dey 're  makin'  it  back  on  St.  Laurent — 
It 's  good  for  night  dat  's  cole  an '  raw, ' ' 

But  devil  never  stir, 

Until  he  smell  de  smell  dat  come 
Wen  Louis  mak'  it  hot 

Wit'  sugar,  spice,  an'  ev'ryt'ing, 

Enough  to  mak'  a  man's  head  sing — 

For  winter,  summer,  fall  an'  spring- 
It's  very  bes'  t'ing  we  got. 


184  MODERN  VERSE 

An'  so  the  devil  can't  refuse 

To  try  de  w'isky  blanc, 
An '  say,  ' '  I  'm  tryin '  many  drink, 
An'  dis  is  de  fines'  I  don't  t'ink, 
De  firs,  ba  tonder !  mak '  me  wink — 

Hooraw,  poor  Canadaw!" 

"Merci — non,  non — I  tak'  no  more," 

De  devil  say  at  las', 
"For  tarn  is  up  wit'  you,  Louis, 
So  come  along,  ma  frien',  wit'  me, 
So  many  star  I'm  sure  I  see, 

De  storm  she  mus'  be  pas'." 

"No  hurry — wait  a  minute,  please," 

Say  Louis  Desjardins, 
"We'll  have  a  smoke  before  we're  t'roo, 
'T  will  never  hurt  mese'f  or  you 
To  try  a  pipe,  or  mebbe  two, 

Of  tabac  Canayen. ' '  * 

"Wan  pipe  is  all  I  want  for  me — 

We'll  finish  our  smoke  downstair," 
De  devil  say,  an '  it  was  enough, 
For  w'en  he  tak  de  very  firse  puff 
He  holler  out,  "Maudit!  w'at  stuff! 

Fresh  air!  fresh  air!!  fresh  air!!!" 

An'  oh!  he  was  never  sick  before 

Till  he  smoke  tabac  Bnineau — 
Can 't  walk  or  fly,  but  he  want  fresh  air 
So  Louis  put  heem  on  rockin'  chair 
An'  t'row  heem  off  on  de  road  out  dere — . 
An'  tole  heem  go  below. 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  185 

An'  he  shut  de  door  an'  fill  de  place 

Wit'  tabac  Canayen, 
An'  never  come  out,  an'  dat's  a  fac' — 
But  smoke  away  till  hees  face  is  black — 
So  dat's  w'y  de  devil  don't  come  back 

For  Louis  Desjardins. 

An'  dere  he's  yet,  an'  dere  he'll  stay — 

So  weech  of  de  two '11  win 
Can't  say  for  dat — it's  kin'  of  a  doubt, 
For  Louis,  de  pipe  never  leave  hees  mout', 
An'  night  or  day  can't  ketch  heem  out, 

An'  devil's  too  scare'  go  in. 

— William  Henry  Drummond 


THE  HOST  OF  THE  AIR  * 

O  'Driscoll  drove  with  a  song 
The  wild  duck  and  the  drake, 
From  the  tall  and  the  tufted  reeds 
Of  the  drear  Hart  Lake. 

And  he  saw  how  the  reeds  grew  dark 
At  the  coming  of  night  tide, 
And  dreamed  of  the  long  dim  hair 
Of  Bridget  his  bride. 


*  From  Poems,  by  William  Butler  Yeats.     Used  by  special  permission 
of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


186  MODERN  VERSE 

He  heard  while  he  sang  and  dreamed 
A  piper  piping  away, 
And  never  was  piping  so  sad, 
And  never  was  piping  so  gay. 

And  he  saw  young  men  and  young  girls 
"Who  danced  on  a  level  place 
And  Bridget  his  bride  among  them, 
With  a  sad  and  a  gay  face. 

The  dancers  crowded  about  him 

And  many  a  sweet  thing  said, 

And  a  young  man  brought  him  red  wine 

And  a  young  girl  white  bread. 

But  Bridget  drew  him  by  the  sleeve 
Away  from  the  merry  bands, 
To  old  men  playing  at  cards 
With  a  twinkling  of  ancient  hands. 

The  bread  and  the  wine  had  a  doom, 
For  these  were  the  host  of  the  air; 
He  sat  and  played  in  a  dream 
Of  her  long  dim  hair. 

He  played  with  the  merry  old  men 
And  thought  not  of  evil  chance, 
Until  one  bore  Bridget  his  bride 
Away  from  the  merry  dance. 

He  bore  her  away  in  his  arms, 
The  handsomest  young  man  there, 
And  his  neck  and  his  breast  and  his  arms 
Were  drowned  in  her  long  dim  hair. 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  187 

O'Driscoll  scattered  the  cards 

And  out  of  his  dream  awoke : 

Old  men  and  young  men  and  young  girls 

Were  gone  like  a  drifting  smoke ; 

But  he  heard  high  up  in  the  air 
A  piper  piping  away, 
And  never  was  piping  so  sad, 
And  never  was  piping  so  gay. 

— William  B.  Yeats 


THE  FIDDLER  OF  DOONEY  * 

When  I  play  on  my  fiddle  in  Dooney 
Folk  dance  like  a  wave  of  the  sea; 
My  cousin  is  priest  in  Kilvarnet, 
My  brother  in  Moharabuiee. 

I  passed  my  brother  and  cousin: 
They  read  in  their  books  of  prayer ; 
I  read  in  my  book  of  songs 
I  bought  at  the  Sligo  fair. 

When  we  come  at  the  end  of  time, 
To  Peter  sitting  in  state, 
He  will  smile  on  the  three  old  spirits, 
But  call  me  first  through  the  gate; 

For  the  good  are  always  the  merry, 
Save  by  an  evil  chance, 

*  From  Poems,  by  William  Butler  Yeats.     Used  by  special  permission 
of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


188  MODERN  VERSE 

And  the  merry  love  the  fiddle 
And  the  merry  love  to  dance. 

And  when  the  folk  there  spy  me, 
They  will  all  come  up  to  me, 
With  "Here  is  the  fiddler  of  Dooney !" 
And  dance  like  a  wave  of  the  sea. 

— William  B.  Yeats 


THE  FAUN  SEES  SNOW  FOR  THE 
FIRST  TIME 

Zeus, 

Brazen-thunder-hurler, 

Cloud-whirler,  son-of-Kronos, 

Send  vengeance  on  these  Oreads 

Who  strew 

White  frozen  flecks  of  mist  and  cloud 

Over  the  brown  trees  and  the  tufted  grass 

Of  the  meadows,  where  the  stream 

Kuns  black  through  shining  banks 

Of  bluish  white. 

Zeus, 

Are  the  halls  of  heaven  broken  up 
That  you  flake  down  upon  me 
Feather-strips  of  marble  ? 

Dis  and  Styx! 

When  I  stamp  my  hoof 

The  frozen-cloud-specks  jam  into  the  cleft 

So  that  I  reel  upon  two  slippery  points.  .  . 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  189 

Fool,  to  stand  here  cursing 
When  I  might  be  running ! 

— Richard  Aldington 

ETIQUETTE  * 

The  Gossips  tell  a  story  of  the  Sparrow  and  the  Cat, 
The  Feline  thin 'and  hungry  and  the  Bird  exceeding  fat. 
With  eager,  famished  energy  and  claws  of  gripping  steel, 
Puss  pounced  upon  the  Sparrow  and  prepared  to  make  a  meal. 

The  Sparrow  never  struggled  when  he  found  that  he  was 

caught 

(If  somewhat  slow  in  action  he  was  mighty  quick  of  thought), 
But  chirped  in  simple  dignity  that  seemed  to  fit  the  case, 
' '  No  Gentleman  would  ever  eat  before  he  'd  washed  his  face ! ' ' 

This  hint  about  his  Manners  wounded  Thomas  like  a  knife 
(For  Cats  are  great  observers  of  the  Niceties  of  Life)  ; 
He  paused  to  lick  his  paws,  which  seemed  the  Proper  Thing 

to  do, — 
And,  chirruping  derisively,  away  the  Sparrow  flew! 

In  helpless,  hopeless  hunger  at  the  Sparrow  on  the  bough, 
Poor  Thomas  glowered  longingly,  and  vowed  a  Solemn  Vow: 
"Henceforth  I'll  eat  my  dinner  first,  then  wash  myself!" — 

And  that's 
The  Universal  Etiquette  for  Educated  Cats. 

— Arthur  Guiterman 

*  From  The  Laughing  Muse,  by  Arthur  Guiterman.     Copyright,  1915, 
by  Harper  &  Brothers, 


190  MODERN  VERSE 

THE  POTATOES'  DANCE* 

(A  Poem  Game) 
I 

"Down  cellar,"  said  the  cricket, 
"Down  cellar/'  said  the  cricket, 
"Down  cellar,"  said  the  cricket, 
"I  saw  a  ball  last  night 

In  honor  of  a  lady, 

In  honor  of  a  lady, 

In  honor  of  a  lady, 

Whose  wings  were  pearly-white, 

The  breath  of  bitter  weather, 

The  breath  of  bitter  weather, 

The  breath  of  bitter  weather, 

Had  smashed  the  cellar  pane. 

We  entertained  a  drift  of  leaves. 

We  entertained  a  drift  of  leaves. 

We  entertained  a  drift  of  leaves. 

And  then  of  snow  and  rain. 

But  we  were  dressed  for  winter, 

But  we  were  dressed  for  winter, 

But  we  were  dressed  for  winter, 

And  loved  to  hear  it  blow. 

In  honor  of  the  lady, 

In  honor  of  the  lady, 

In  honor  of  the  lady, 

Who  makes  potatoes  grow, 

Our  guest  the  irish  lady, 

*  From  The  Chinese  Nightingale,  by  Vachel  Lindsay.    Used  by  special 
permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


THOUGHT  AND  FANC¥  191 

The  tiny  Irish  lady, 
The  airy  Irish  lady, 
"Who  makes  potatoes  grow. 

II 

"Potatoes  were  the  waiters, 
Potatoes  were  the  waiters, 
Potatoes  were  the  waiters, 
Potatoes  were  the  band, 
Potatoes  were  the  dancers 
Kicking  up  the  sand, 
Kicking  up  the  sand, 
Kicking  up  the  sand, 
Potatoes  were  the  dancers 
Kicking  up  the  sand. 
Their  legs  were  old  burnt  matches, 
Their  legs  were  old  burnt  matches, 
Their  legs  were  old  burnt  matches, 
Their  arms  were  just  the  same. 
They  jigged  and  whirled  and  scrambled. 
Jigged  and  whirled  and  scrambled, 
Jigged  and  whirled  and  scrambled, 
In  honor  of  the  dame, 
The  noble  Irish  lady 
"Who  make  potatoes  dance, 
The  witty  Irish  lady, 
The  saucy  Irish  lady, 
The  laughing  Irish  lady 
"Who  makes  potatoes  prance. 

Ill 

"There  was  just  one  sweet  potato. 
He  was  golden  brown  and  slim. 


192  MODERN  VERSE 

The  lady  loved  his  dancing, 

The  lady  loved  his  dancing, 

The  lady  loved  his  dancing, 

She  danced  all  night  with  him, 

She  danced  all  night  with  him, 

Alas,  he  wasn't  Irish. 

So  when  she  flew  away, 

They  threw  him  in  the  coal-bin, 

And  there  he  is  to-day, 

Where  they  cannot  hear  his  sighs 

And  his  weeping  for  the  lady, 

The  glorious  Irish  lady, 

The  beauteous  Irish  lady, 

Who 

Gives 

Potatoes 

Eyes." 

— Vachcl  Lindsay 


DAGONET,  ARTHUR'S  FOOL 

Dagonet,  Arthur's  fool, 

He  shocked  and  crashed  with  the  rest, 
But  they  gave  him  his  coup-de-grace, 

When  Arthur  fought  in  the  West. 

Dagonet,  Arthur's  fool, 

They  smashed  him,  body  and  soul, 
And  they  shoved  him  under  a  bush, 

To  die  like  a  rat  in  a  hole. 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  193 

His  poor  little  queer  fool's  body 

Was  twisted  awry  with  pain : — 
Dagonet,  Arthur's  fool, 

Left  to  die  in  the  rain. 

He  writhed  and  groaned  in  his  torment, 
But  none  heard  his  shameful  cry : — 

Dagonet,  Arthur's  fool, 
Whom  they  left  alone  to  die. 

Mordred  hated  the  fool, 

And  he  passed  the  place  where  he  lay, 
"Ah-ha!  my  pleasant  fool, 

We'll  see  if  you'll  jest  to-day!" 

"We've  silenced  your  bitter  tongue, 
We've  stopped  your  quirks  and  pride!" 

And  Mordred,  who  ne'er  forgot, 
He  kicked  the  fool  aside. 

Mordred  was  ever  vile, 

He  scorned  each  knightly  rule, 
He  swung  a  crashing  blow 

Right  on  the  mouth  of  the  fool. 

He  lifted  his  bleeding  head, 

Dazed  for  a  moment 's  space ; 
Then  Dagonet,  Arthur's  fool, 

He  laughed  in  Mordred 's  face. 

— M.  St.  Clare  Byrne 


194  MODERN  VERSE 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN  * 

"In  our  lands  be  Beeres  and  Lyons  of  dyvers  colours  as  ye  redd, 
grene,  black,  and  white.  And  in  our  land  be  also  unicornes  and  these 
Unicornes  slee  many  Lyons.  .  .  .  Also  there  dare  no  man  make  a  lye 
in  our  lande,  for  if  he  dyde  he  sholde  incontynent  be  sleyn." — Mediaeval 
Epistle,  of  Pope  Prester  John. 


Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  Mogadore  we  plodded, 

Forty  singing  seamen  in  an  old  black  barque, 
And  we  landed  in  the  twilight  where  a  Polyphemus  nodded 
With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red  and  yellow  through 

the  dark! 

For  his  eye  was  growing  mellow 
Rich  and  ripe  and  red  and  yellow, 

As  was  time,  since  old  Ulysses  made  him  bellow  in  the  dark ! 
Cho. — Since  Ulysses  bunged  his  eye  up  with  a  pine-torch  in 
the  dark! 


II 

Were  they  mountains  in  the  gloaming  or  the  giant's  ugly 

shoulders 
Just  beneath  the  rolling  eyeball,  with  its  bleared  and  vinous 

glow, 

Red  and  yellow  o'er  the  purple  of  the  pines  among  the  boulders 
And  the  shaggy  horror  brooding  on  the  sullen  slopes  below? 
Were  they  pines  among  the  boulders 
Or  the  hair  upon  his  shoulders  ? 

*  Reprinted  with  permission  from  Collected  Poems,  by  Alfred  Noyes. 
Copyright,  1913,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  195 

We  were  only  simple  seamen,  so  of  course  we  didn't  know. 
Cho. — We    were   simply    singing   seamen,   so   of   course   we 
couldn't  know. 

Ill 

But  we  crossed  a  plain  of  poppies,  and  we  came  upon  a  foun- 
tain 

Not  of  water,  but  of  jewels,  like  a  spray  of  leaping  fire ; 
And  behind  it,  in  an  emerald  glade,  beneath  a  golden  mountain 
There  stood  a  crystal  palace,  for  a  sailor  to  admire ; 
For  a  troop  of  ghosts  came  round  us, 
Which  with  leaves  of  bay  they  crowned  us, 
Then  with  grog  they  well  nigh  drowned  us,  to  the  depth  of 

our  desire! 
Cho. — And  'twas  very  friendly  of  them,  as  a  sailor  can  admire ! 

IV 

There  was  music  all  about  us,  we  were  growing  quite  forgetful 

We  were  only  singing  seamen  from  the  dirt  of  London-town, 

Though  the  neetar  that  we  swallowed  seemed  to  vanish  half 

regretful 

As  if  we  wasn't  good  enough  to  take  such  vittles  down, 
When  we  saw  a  sudden  figure, 
Tall  and  black  as  any  nigger, 

Like  the  devil — only  bigger — drawing  near  us  with  a  frown ! 
Cho. — Like  the  devil — but  much  bigger — and  he  wore  a  golden 
crown ! 


And  "What's  all  this?"  he  growls  at  us!    With  dignity  we 

chaunted, 
"Forty  singing  seamen,  sir,  as  won't  be  put  upon!" 


196  MODERN  VERSE 

"What?    Englishmen?"  he  cries,  "Well,  if  ye  don't  mind 

being  haunted, 
Faith  you're  welcome  to  my  palace;  I'm  the  famous  Pres- 

ter  John! 

Will  ye  walk  into  my  palace  ? 
I  don't  bear  'ee  any  malice! 
One  and  all  ye  shall  be  welcome  in  the  halls  of  Prester 

John!" 

Cho. — So  we  walked  into  the  palace  and  the  halls  cf  Prester 
John! 

VI 

Now  the  door  was  one  great  diamond  and  the  hall  a  hollow 

ruby — 

Big  as  Beachy  Head,  my  lads,  nay  bigger  by  a  half ! 
And  I  sees  the  mate  wi'  mouth  agape,  a-staring  like  a  booby, 
And  the  skipper  close  behind  him,  with  his  tongue  out  like 

a  calf ! 

Now  the  way  to  take  it  rightly 
Was  to  walk  along  politely 

Just  as  if  you  didn't  notice — so  I  couldn't  help  but  laugh! 
Cho. — For  they  both  forgot  their  manners  and  the  crew  was 
bound  to  laugh! 

VII 

But  he  took  us  through  his  palace  and,  my  lads,  as  I'm  a 

sinner, 

We  walked  into  an  opal  like  a  sunset-colored  cloud — 
"My  dining-room,"  he  says,  and,  quick  as  light  we  saw  a 

dinner 

Spread  before  ns  by  the  fingers  of  a  hidden  fairy  crowd; 
And  the  skipper,  swaying  gently 
After  dinner,  murmurs  faintly, 


THOUGHT  AND  FANC^S  197 

"I  looks  towards  you,  Prester  John,  you've  done  us  very 

proud ! ' ' 

Cho. — And  we  drank  his  health  with  honors,  for  he  done  us 
very  proud ! 

VIII 

Then  he  walks  us  to  his  garden  where  we  sees  a  feathered 

demon 

Very  splendid  and  important  on  a  sort  of  spicy  tree! 
"That's  the  Phoenix,"  whispers  Prester,  "which  all  eddicated 

seamen 

Knows  the  only  one  existent,  and  he's  waiting  for  to  flee! 
When  his  hundred  years  expire 
Then  he'll  set  hisself  a-fire 

And  another  from  his  ashes  rise  most  beautiful  to  see!" 
Cho. — With  wings  of  rose  and  emerald  most  beautiful  to  see ! 

IX 

Then  he  says,  "In  yonder  forest  there's  a  little  silver  river. 

And  whosoever  drinks  of  it,  his  youth  shall  never  die ! 
The  centuries  go  by,  but  Prester  John  endures  forever 

With  his  music  in  the  mountains  and  his  magic  on  the  sky ! 
While  your  hearts  are  growing  colder, 
While  your  world  is  growing  older, 
There's  a  magic  in  the  distance,  where  the  sea-line  meets 

the  sky. ' ' 

Cho. — It  shall  call  to  singing  seamen  till  the  fount  o'  song  is 
dry! 


So  we  thought  we  'd  up  and  seek  it,  but  that  forest  fair  defied 

us,— 
First  a  crimson  leopard  laughs  at  us  most  horrible  to  see, 


198  MODERN  VERSE 

Then  a  sea-green  lion  came  and  sniffed  and  licked  his  chops 

and  eyed  us, 

While  a  red  and  yellow  unicorn  was  dancing  round  a  tree ! 
We  was  trying  to  look  thinner 
Which  was  hard,  because  our  dinner 
Must  ha'  made  us  very  tempting  to  a  cat  of  high  degree! 
Cho. — Must  ha'  made  us  very  tempting  to  the  whole  menar- 
jeree ! 

XI 

So  we  scuttled  from  that  forest  and  across  the  poppy  meadows 
Where  the  awful  shaggy  horror  brooded  o  'er  us  in  the  dark ! 
And  we  pushes  out  from  shore  again  a-jumping  at  our  shadows, 
And  pulls  away  most  joyful  to  the  old  black  barque ! 
And  home  again  we  plodded 
While  the  Polyphemus  nodded 
With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red  and  yellow  through 

the  dark, 

Cho. — Oh,  the  moon  above  the  mountains,  red  and  yellow 
through  the  dark! 

XII 

Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  London-town  we  blundered, 

Forty  singing  seamen  as  was  puzzled  for  to  know 
If  the  visions  that  we  saw  was  caused  by — here  again  we 

pondered — 

A  tipple  in  a  vision  forty  thousand  years  ago. 
Could  the  grog  we  dreamt  we  swallowed 
Make  us  dream  of  all  that  followed? 

We  were  only  simple  seamen,  so  of  course  we  didn't  know! 
Cho. — We  were  simple  singing  seamen,  so  of  course  we  could 
not  know. 

— Alfred  Noyes 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  199 


When  Shakespeare  laughed,  the  fun  began! 
Even  the  tavern  barmaids  ran 

To  choke  in  secret,  and  unbent 

A  lace,  to  ease  their  merriment. 
The  Mermaid  rocked  to  hear  the  man. 

Then  Ben  his  aching  girth  would  span, 
And  roar  above  his  pasty  pan, 

"Avast  there,  "Will,  for  I  am  spent!" 
When  Shakespeare  laughed. 

I'  faith,  let  him  be  grave  who  can 
When  Falstaff,  Puck  and  Caliban 
In  one  explosive  jest  are  blent ! 
The  boatmen  on  the  river  lent 
An  ear  to  hear  the  mirthful  clan 
When  Shakespeare  laughed. 

— Christopher  Morley 


Wild  little  bird,  who  chose  thee  for  a  sign 
To  put  upon  the  cover  of  this  book? 

*  From  The  Rocking  Horse,  by  Christopher  Morley.     Copyright,  1919, 
George  H.  Doran  Company,  publishers. 

*  From  A  Dome  of  Many-Colored  Glass,  by  Amy  Lowell.     Used   by 
special  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


200  MODERN  VERSE 

Who  heard  thee  singing  in  the  distance  dim, 
The  vague,  far  greenness  of  the  enshrouding  wood, 
When  the  damp  freshness  of  the  morning  earth 
Was  full  of  pungent  sweetness  and  thy  song? 

Who  followed  over  moss  and  twisted  roots, 

And  pushed  through  the  wet  leaves  of  trailing  vines 

Where  slanting  sunbeams  gleamed  uncertainly, 

While  ever  clearer  came  the  dropping  notes, 

Until,  at  last,  two  widening  trunks  disclosed 

Thee  singing  on  a  spray  of  branching  beech, 

Hidden,  then  seen ;  and  always  that  same  song 

Of  joyful  sweetness,  rapture  incarnate, 

Filled  the  hushed,  rustling  stillness  of  the  wood? 

We  do  not  know  what  bird  thou  art.    Perhaps 
That  fairy  bird,  fabled  in  island  tale, 
Who  never  sings  but  once,  and  then  his  song 
Is  of  such  fearful  beauty  that  he  dies 
From  sheer  exuberance  of  melody. 

For  this  they  took  thee,  little  bird,  for  this 
They  captured  thee,  tilting  among  the  leaves, 
And  stamped  thee  for  a  symbol  on  this  book. 
For  it  contains  a  song  surpassing  thine, 
Richer,  more  sweet,  more  poignant.    And  the  poet 
Who  felt  this  burning  beauty,  and  whose  heart 
Was  full  of  loveliest  things,  sang  all  he  knew 
A  little  while,  and  then  he  died;  too  frail 
To  bear  this  untamed,  passionate  burst  of  song. 

— Amy  Lowell 


THOUGHT  AND  FANCY  201 


THE  SHEPHERD  TO  THE  POET 

Och,  what's  the  good  o'  spinnin'  words 

As  fine  as  silken  thread  ? 
Will  "golden  gorse  upon  the  hill" 

Be  gold  to  buy  ye  bread  1 

An'  while  ye 're  list'nin'  in  the  glen 

"To  catch  the  thrush's  lay," 
Your  thatch  is  scattered  be  th'  wind, 

Your  sheep  have  gone  astray. 

Th '  time  ye  're  af  ther  makin '  rhymes 

0'  "leppin'  waves  an'  sea," 
Arrah!  ye  should  be  sellin'  then 

Your  lambs  upon  the  quay. 

Sure,  'tis  God's  ways  is  very  quare, 

An '  far  beyont  my  ken, 
How  o'  the  selfsame  clay  he  makes 

Poets  an'  useful  men! 

— Agnes  Kendrick  Gray 


TO  YOURSELF  * 

Talking  to  people  in  well-ordered  ways  is  prose, 

And  talking  to  them  in  well-ordered  ways  or 

in  disordered  outbreak  may  be  poetry. 

*  Reprinted  with  permission  from  Grenstone  Poems,  by  Witter  Bynner 
Copyright,  1917,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


202  MODERN  VERSE 

But  talking  to  yourself,  out  on  a  country  road, 
no  houses  and  no  hedges  to  conceal  a  listener, 

Only  yourself  and  heaven  and  the  trees  and  a 
wind  and  a  linnet; 

Talking  to  yourself  in  those  long  breaths  that 
sing  or  hum  or  whistle  fullness  of  the  heart, 

Or  the  short  breaths, 

Beats  of  the  heart, 

Whether  it  be  of  sadness  or  a  haystack, 

Mirth  or  the  smell  of  the  sea, 

A  cloud  or  luck  or  love, 

Any  of  these  or  none — 

Is  poetry. 

— Witter  Bynner 


NOTES 


PREFACE  TO  THE  NOTES 

Some  lovers  of  poetry  object  to  studying  it.  They  prefer 
to  feel  its  effects  without  analyzing  them;  they  prefer  to  an- 
swer the  questions  that  arise  in  their  own  minds  rather  than 
the  questions  that  have  occurred  to  someone  else.  Above  all 
they  dread  the  possibility  that  discussions  may  become  formal- 
ized. On  the  other  hand,  many  persons,  both  young  and  old, 
really  cannot  appreciate  poetry  until  they  do  study  it — until 
they  see  the  connection  between  an  author's  life  and  his  work; 
until  they  understand  the  allusions  or  technique  of  a  poem; 
until  they  can  apply  a  few  standards  of  comparison,  and  get 
their  imaginations  working. 

These  Notes  are  added  in  the  hope  that  they  may  help  the 
latter  class  of  readers  without  seriously  offending  the  former. 
They  give — very  briefly — important  biographical  data,  neces- 
sary background,  and  some  questions  which  are  intended 
merely  as  suggestions  and  time-savers.  (Nearly  all  of  these 
questions  originally  were  asked  by  pupils  themselves,  in  the 
course  of  two  years'  classroom  experiments  with  modern 
verse.)  They  simply  show  some  ways  of  teaching  oneself  how 
to  test  and  enjoy  not  only  these  modern  poems,  but  others 
which  may  be  read  in  future. 


NOTES 


SEA-FEVER 

Page  3. —  (From  Salt-Water  Poems  and  Ballads) 

John  Masefield  was  born  in  1874.  From  childhood  he  had  such  a 
love  of  the  sea  that  his  parents  apprenticed  him,  at  fourteen,  to  a 
shipmaster  as  a  cabin  boy.  Later,  he  spent  several  years  before  the 
mast.  Then  he  wandered  on  foot  through  various  countries.  For  awhile 
he  worked  in  New  York,  first  in  a  saloon  and  then  in  a  factory. 
Returning  to  England  with  his  mind  finally  made  up  to  devote  himself 
to  literature,  he  worked  patiently  for  over  ten  years  before  the  publica- 
tion of  The  Everlasting  Mercy  (which  won  the  Edmond  de  Polignac 
prize  in  1912)  made  him  famous.  Since  then  he  has  published  many 
volumes  of  verse  and  plays.  During  the  war  he  served  with  the  Red 
Cross  in  France  and  at  Gallipoli,  fitting  out  a  hospital  ship  at  his  own 
expense.  He  has  made  a  lecture  tour  of  the  United  States. 

For  generations,  love  of  the  sea  has  been  a  characteristic  of  the 
Englishman.  Over  a  thousand  years  ago,  an  Anglo-Saxon  poet  whose 
name  we  do  not  know — and  in  a  way,  it  does  not  matter,  since  he  waa 
but  a  Toice  for  many  of  his  fellows — composed  a  long  poem  called  "The 
Seafarer."  A  few  scattered  lines  from  it(  Cook  and  Tinker's  translation) 
will  show  the  similarity  of  feeling: 

"The  hail  flew  in  showers  about  me;  and  there  I  heard  only 
The  roar  of  the  sea,  ice-cold  waves,  and  the  song  of  the  swan; 
For  pastime  the  gannet's  cry  served  me;  the  kittiwakes"  chatter 
For  laughter  of  men;  and  for  mead-drink  the  call  of  the  sea-mews." 

"Yet  the  thoughts  of  my  heart  now  are  throbbing 

To  test  the  high  streams,  the  salt  waves  in  tumultuous  play, 

Desire  in  my  heart  ever  urges  my  spirit  to  wander 

To  seek  out  the  home  of  the  stranger  in  lands  afar  off." 

"Now  my  spirit  uneasily  turns  in  the  heart's  narrow  chamber, 

Now  wanders  forth  over  the  tide,  o'er  the  home  of  the  whale, 

To  the  end  of  the  earth — and  comes  back  to  me.     Eager  and  greedy, 

The   lone   wanderer   screams,  and    resistlessly   drives   my   soul   onward 

Over  the  whale-path,  over  the  tracts  of  the  sea." 

On  what  sort  of  day  do  you  love  the  sea  best  ? 

207 


208  NOTES 


WILD  WEATHER 

Page  4. —  (From  Crack  o'  Dawn) 

Fannie  Stearns  Davis  (Mrs.  Gifford)  is  a  Smith  College  graduate, 
of  1904.  She  has  published  books  of  verse,  anu  contributes  frequently  to 
leading  magazines.  She  lives  in  Pittsfield,  Mass. 

Which  do  you  prefer — a  windy  day  near  the  sea  or  a  windy  day  in 
the  country?  What  words  here  give  best  an  idea  of  the  onrush  and 
might  of  the  wind?  Do  you  know  a  famous  nineteenth  century  poem 
which  is  full  of  a  man's  fierce  exultation  in  this  great  force  of  Nature? 


HIGH-TIDE 

Page  5. —  (From  Growing  Pains) 

Jean  Starr  was  born  in  Ohio,  1886.  She  attended  private  schools  in 
Ohio  and  New  York,  and  took  a  Columbia  University  extension  course. 
She  married  Louis  Untermeyer  (q.  v. )  in  1907.  She  has  published 
some  of  her  verse,  and  contributes  to  leading  magazines. 

What  two  ideas  about  the  moon — one  scientific,  the  other  mythical — 
are  skillfully  combined  in  this  poem? 

Cadenced  verse  (very  commonly,  but  rather  incorrectly  known  as 
"free  verse,"  from  a  mistranslation  of  the  French  term  "vers  libre") 
is  an  extremely  difficult  form.  This  note,  long  as  it  is,  gives  only  the 
more  important  principles  governing  its  construction.  Your  teacher 
will  help  you  illustrate  and  discuss  the  points.  Once  you  understand 
them,  and  have  applied  them  to  several  poems  written  in  cadenced 
verse,  you  will  see  that  this  form  is  far  from  being — as  many  people 
ignorantly  think — mere  chopped-up  prose.  It  has  long  been  recognized 
in  other  languages  as  a  legitimate  form  cf  poetry. 

The  French,  who  use  it  frequently,  call  it  "vers  libre."  "Vers'' 
means  "line"  or  "lines."  The  lines  of  cadenced  verse  are  "free"  in 
that  they  follow  no  fixed  scheme  of  rhyme  or  metre.  But  the  group  or 
groups  of  lines  that  constitute  the  poem — what  in  English  is  some- 
times loosely  called  "the  verse" — are  not  "free."  They  must  obey  the 
laws  of  cadence,  and  preserve  the  strophic  unit. 

The  literal  meaning  of  "cadence"  is  "a  fall  of  the  voice  in  reading 
or  speaking."  A  "fall"  which  occurs  at  the  end  of  a  sentence  is  often 
caused  by  the  speaker's  need  to  breathe;  the  minor  ones  which  occur 
in  the  midst  of  the  sentence,  by  his  wish  to  emphasize.  A  slight  transi- 
tion in  thought  gives  us  the  usual  meaning  of  "cadence" — the  whole 
rhythmical,  pleasant  flow  of  sound  caused  by  the  rising  and  falling  of 
the  voice  between  the  drawings  of  breath.  Amy  Lowell  has  said,  (Some 
Musical  Analogies  in  Modern  Poetry)  "By  'cadence'  in  poetry  we  mean 
a  rhythmic  curve,  containing  one  or  more  stressed  accents,  and  corre- 


NOTES  209 

spending  roughly  to  the  necessity  for  breathing.  This  must  also  corre- 
spond to  a  slight  depression  or  slight  dropping  in  the  tension  of  the 
subject  at  this  point — what  T  might  call  a  pause  in  the  flow  of  the 
idea." 

It  can  easily  be  seen  that  rhyme  and  metre  do  impose  upon  cadence 
certain  restrictions  of  regularly  recurring  accents  and  sounds.  For  if 
verse  requires  rhyming  words  at  regular  intervals,  one  of  two  things  is 
likely  to  happen;  either  the  natural  curve  of  the  cadence  may  have  to  bo 
altered  for  the  sake  of  fitting  in  those  particular  words,  or  words  which 
do  not  fit  the  meaning  so  exactly  may  have  to  be  substituted.  Metre 
also  hampers  freedom  in  the  choice  of  words,  for  in  English  verse  the 
metrical  accent  must  correspond  to  the  natural  accent.  Again,  in  the 
case  of  metre,  a  line  which  forms  part  or  the  whole  of  a  cadence  must 
be  made  up  of  feet  containing  so  many  syllables,  with  the  corresponding 
syllable  of  each  foot  accented.  Cadenced  verse,  on  the  contrary,  is  non- 
syllabic;  it  is  based  upon  accent,  and  there  may  be  one  syllable  or  four 
to  any  single  beat.  (These  groups  of  syllables  may  be  called  "time- 
units,"  for  the  number  of  seconds,  or  fractions  of  seconds,  required  to 
read  each  one  is  approximately  the  same.)  Thus  greater  freedom  in 
choice  of  words  and  greater  variety  of  cadence-effect  is  possible  in  "vers 
libre"  than  in  metrical  verse. 

But  the  human  ear  and  the  human  mind  demand  some  unit  in  every 
form  of  expression,  no  matter  how  great  may  be  the  variety  within  that 
unit.  Skillful  writers  of  cadenced  verse  always  preserve  a  unit  called 
the  strophe.  "Strophe,"  in  Greek  tragedy,  meant  the  circuit  made  by 
the  chorus  around  the  central  altar  in  the  pauses  between  action,  and 
hence  the  group  of  lines  which  they  chanted  while  making  this  turn. 
It  had  no  universally  prescribed  length  or  metre,  like  the  stanza,  but 
it  possessed  a  certain  completeness  of  rhythm  and  thought.  Writers 
of  cadenced  verse,  then,  mean  by  "strophe"  a  succession  of  cadences  that 
gives  an  effect  of  completed  harmony.  (The  "circle"  is  usually  closed 
by  having  the  strophe  "return"  upon  itself;  that  is,  some  thought  or 
sound  at  the  end  brings  one  back  to  the  thought  or  sound  of  the  be- 
ginning.) The  strophe  may  be  the  whole  poem,  or  only  a  part  of  it. 
In  the  latter  case,  each  strophe  should  lead  naturally  into  the  next; 
the  whole  poem  might  thus  be  likened  to  a  series  of  circles,  either 
tangent  or  concentric. 

The  question  naturally  arises,  "Cannot  variety  of  cadence-effect  and 
strophic  unity  be  preserved  even  when  metre  and  rhyme  are  used?" 
Yes — occasionally,  when  the  poem  is  by  a  master.  Shakespeare,  Milton, 
Keats,  and  Shelley  are  among  the  few  who  have  attained  this  fourfold 
excellence.  But  even  they  could  not  often  attain  it  without  employing 
inversions — a  trick  very  much  disliked  by  modern  writers — or  inserting 
words  evidently  used  for  reasons  of  rhyme  or  of  metre.  The  average 
modern  poet,  preferring  to  approach  perfection  within  his  individual 
limitations,  does  not  try  to  do  six  things  at  once;  he  deliberately 


210  NOTES 

sacrifices  one  or  two  effects,  believing  that  definite  compensations  are 
offered  by  the  increased  naturalness  and  beauty  of  those  retained. 
Writers  of  cadenced  verse  claim  that  natural  sentence-order,  the  use  of 
the  exact  word — contributing  delightfully  delicate  values  of  word-mean- 
ings— the  "subtle  shades  of  changing  rhythms,"  and  a  certain  organic 
unity  are  enough  to  give  poetic  pleasure  without  metre  or  rhyme.  They 
do  not  claim  that  "vers  libre"  is  the  only,  or  even  the  best,  way  of 
writing  poetry.  All  of  them  who  write  it  well  have  spent  years  in 
studying  and  writing  standard  metrical  verse,  and  most  of  them  still 
use  that  older  medium  on  occasions.  They  regard  cadenced  verse — and 
we  should  regard  it — as  simply  another  form  of  English  poetry,  at 
present  somewhat  experimental,  but  without  doubt  destined  to  make  a 
positive  contribution  to  English  poetic  technique. 

The  possibilities  resulting  from  that  contribution  cannot  be  dis- 
cussed at  any  length  here.  Broadly,  it  may  be  said  that  the  addition 
of  a  new  form  to  a  language  always  means  new  effects  in  subject- 
matter,  vocabulary,  and  rhythm,  which  not  only  have  intrinsic  worth 
but  exert  a  powerful  influence  upon  accepted  forms,  and  that  in  this 
way  techniqu  is  constantly  widened  and  enriched.  If  you  are  interested 
in  this  idea  ol  the  steady  progress  of  art  through  action  and  reaction, 
you  may  like  a  book  called  Convention  and  Revolt  in  Poetry,  by  John 
Livingston  Lowes.  (Chapter  6  deals  especially  with  the  question  of 
"vers  libre.")  Or  if  you  wish  to  examine  the  charge  that  poetry  is 
becoming  more  and  more  like  prose,  read  Chapters  5  and  6  of  A  Study 
of  Poetry,  by  Bliss  Perry:  this  is  rather  more  technical.  Various  books 
and  articles  by  Amy  Lowell — the  first  American  poet  to  set  forth  clearly 
the  case  for  "free"  forms  and  furnish  convincing  proof  of  their  merits 
by  the  beauty  of  her  own  work — are  also  difficult,  but  very  valuable. 

All  of  these  general  principles  underlying  cadenced  verse  lead  up,  for 
you  to  one  specific,  practical  direction.  Don't  judge  a  poem  written 
in  this  form  by  how  it  looks;  judge  it  by  how  it  sounds.  The  uae  of 
capitals  or  small  letters  does  not  affect  the  cadences,  and  neither  do  the 
arbitrary  line-divisions,  which  vary  infinitely  according  to  the  subtle 
shades  of  emphasis  that  the  poets  wish  to  convey.  The  only  real  test 
of  cadenced  verse  is  made  by  the  ear.  Never  fail  to  read  it  aloud  as  you 
study  it — not  once,  but  many  times. 


SAILOR  TOWN 

Page  5. —  (From  Sailor  Town) 

Cicely  Fox  Smith  was  born  in  England  toward  the  close  of  the  last 
century.  One  of  her  ancestors  was  Captain  John  Smith  of  Virginia. 
Several  years  spent  on  the  Pacific  Coast  of  Canada  gave  her  a  full 
opportunity  to  indulge  her  passion  for  ships  and  the  sea.  To  quote 
from  her  letter:  "I  wish  I  might  truthfully  tell  you  that  I  was  a 


NOTES  211 

sea-captain's  daughter  and  had  sailed  with  him  on  all  his  voyages. 
That  is  what  some  of  my  unknown  correspondents  have  surmised.  Also, 
I  frequently  receive  letters  from  sailormen  who  do  not  know  my  sex 
asking  if  I  am  not  an  old  shipmate." 

Miss  Smith  has  published  not  only  volumes  of  verse  but  novels.  She 
is  now  living  in  England. 

Have  you  ever  been  along  the  water-front  in  a  fishing  center  like 
Gloucester  or  any  large  harbor  city  ?  If  you  were  writing  a  poem  about 
it,  would  you  choose  the  scene  in  daytime  or  the  scene  in  the  evening, 
as  the  author  has?  Of  the  many  objects  in  the  little  shops,  why  do 
you  think  she  picked  out  the  ones  she  did  for  mention? 


THE  SHIP  OF  RIO 

Page  6. —  (From  Peacock  Pie) 

Walter  de  la  Mare  was  born  in  1873,  and  educated  at  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral  Choir  School.  Since  1902  he  has  written  many  volumes  of 
verse.  (Recently,  these  have  been  published  in  an  American  "collected 
edition.")  In  1910  he  won  the  Edmond  de  Polignac  prize  for  that  year. 
He  is  a  very  quiet,  unworldly  man,  with  an  eternally  young  heart  and 
a  keen  sense  of  humor.  His  poems  are  chiefly  of  three  types:  child- 
poems,  many  of  which  rival  Mother  Goose;  character-studies;  and 
poems  of  elusive  and  mysterious  fancy. 

This  is  one  of  the  first  group.  It  gives  equal  delight  to  children  and 
to  grown-ups. 

OLD  ANCHOR  CHANTY 

Page  7. —  (From  Poems  with  Fables  in  Prose) 

Herbert  Trench  is  very  fond  of  sea  life  as  the  traveler  knows  it.  He 
was  born  in  Ireland,  1865,  and  educated  at  Haileybury  and  Oxford. 
He  has  held  positions  of  honor  on  the  Board  of  Education,  been  director 
of  the  Haymarket  Theater,  and  done  much  to  promote  better  under- 
standing between  Great  Britain  and  Italy.  He  has  written  poems  and 
plays. 

"The  Chanty-Man  Sings,"  by  William  Brown  Meloney  (Everybody's 
Magazine,  August,  1915)  would  be  most  interesting  to  read  in  connec- 
tion with  this.  It  gives  the  words  and  tunes  for  several  famous  old 
chanties— those  songs  that  sailors  used  to  sing  while  they  were  heaving 
anchor,  hoisting  yards,  or  adjusting  sails,  on  the  square-rigged  ships 
and  schooners.  The  chanty  verse  consisted  of  alternate  solo  and 
chorus  lines.  Often  the  leader  improvised  as  he  went  along. 

When  this  is  read  aloud  in  class,  two  solo  parts  should  be  assigned, 
and  all  others  join  in  the  chorus. 


212  NOTES 


IRRADIATIONS— III 

Page  n. —  (From  Irradiations;  Sand  and  Spray) 

John  Gould  Fletcher  was  born  in  Arkansas  in  1886.  He  attended 
Phillips  Andover  and  Harvard.  Soon  afterwards,  he  went  to  Europe, 
remaining  six  years.  Returning  to  America  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
war,  he  travelled  in  the  West.  In  1916,  he  went  back  to  England, 
where  he  has  been  living  since.  He. has  published  several  volumes  of 
verse  which  embody  interesting  and  very  "advanced"  poetic  theories,  and 
has  translated  a  good  deal  of  Japanese  poetry. 

Mr.  Fletcher  is  one  of  the  so-called  "Imagists."  The  rules  which 
these  poets  have  set  for  themselves  are  given  below,  in  their  own  words. 
They  are  taken  from  the  preface  to  Some  Imagist  Poets,  an  anthology 
containing  representative  verse  by  Amy  Lowell,  "H.  D."  (Hilda  Doolittle, 
now  Mrs.  Aldington),  John  Gould  Fletcher,  Richard  Aldington,  F.  S. 
Flint,  and  D.  II.  Lawrence.  They  are  prefaced  by  the  statement : 
"These  principles  are  not  new;  they  have  fallen  into  desuetude.  They 
are  the  essentials  of  all  great  poetry,  indeed  of  all  great  literature." 

"1.  To  use  the  language  of  common  speech,  but  to  employ  always  the 
exact  word,  not  the  nearly  exact,  nor  the  merely  decorative  word. 

"2.  To  create  new  rhythms — as  the  expression  of  new  moods  and  not 
to  copy  old  rhythms,  which  merely  echo  old  moods.  We  do  not  insist 
Tipon  "free  verse"  as  the  only  method  of  writing  poetry.  We  fight  for 
it  as  a  principle  of  liberty.  We  believe  that  the  individuality  of  a 
poet  may  often  be  better  expressed  in  free-verse  than  in  conventional 
forms.  In  poetry  a  new  cadence  means  a  new  idea. 

"3.  To  allow  absolute  freedom  in  the  choice  of  subject.  It  is  not 
good  art  to  write  badly  of  aeroplanes  and  automobiles,  nor  is  it  neces- 
sarily bad  art  to  write  well  about  the  past.  We  believe  passionately 
in  the  artistic  value  of  modern  life,  but  we  wish  to  point  out  that 
there  is  nothing  so  uninspiring  nor  as  old-fashioned  as  an  aeroplane  of 
the  year  1911. 

"4.  To  present  an  image  (hence  the  name:  'Imagist').  We  are  not  a 
school  of  painters,  but  we  believe  that  poetry  should  render  particulars 
exactly  and  not  deal  in  vague  generalities,  however  magnificent  and 
sonorous.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  we  oppose  the  cosmic  poet,  who 
seems  to  us  to  shirk  the  responsibilities  of  his  art. 

"5.  To  produce  poetry  that  is  hard  and  clear,  never  blurred  and 
indefinite. 

"6.  Finally,  most  of  us  believe  that  concentration  is  of  the  very 
essence  of  poetry." 

A  clear  and  interesting  explanation  (with  illustrations)  of  these 
rules  may  be  found  in  Amy  Lowell's  Tendencies  in  Modern  American 
Poetry. 

How  does  this  poem  show  Mr.  Fletcher  to  be  an  Imagist?     Does  his 


NOTES  213 

free  verse  embody  the  principles  which  were  laid  down  in  the  note  on 

"High-Tide"? 


CARGOES 

Page   12. —  (From  Salt-Wctter  Poems  and  Ballads) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Sea-Fever.") 

Occasionally  poems  come  in  one  Hash  of  inspiration.  Mr.  Masefield  is 
said  to  have  written  this  in  half  an  hour. 

What  idea  is  suggested  by  the  poem  as  a  whole?  How  does  the  in- 
tentional anticlimax  contribute  to  this?  Which  of  the  three  pictures 
is  clearest  in  vour  mind? 


THE  OLD  SHIPS 

Page  12. —  (From  Collected  Poems) 

In  James  Elroy  Flecker's  untimely  death  English  poetry  suffered  a 
great  loss.  Born  in  1884,  he  died  of  consumption  when  only  thirty. 
He  was  an  Oxford  man.  He  spent  four  years  of  his  life  in  the  Consular 
Service,  holding  posts  at  Constantinople,  Smyrna,  and  Beyrout.  He 
married  a  Greek  girl.  He  loved  the  East,  especially  for  its  picturesque- 
ness  and  its  age-old  civilization. 

How  long  ago  did  "the  pirate  Genoese"  do  battle?  What  did  the 
"drowsy  ship  of  some  yet  older  day"  look  like?  How  old  might  it 
possibly  be?  Do  you  remember  the  wooden  horse  of  Troy?  Who  lived 
on  the  island  of 


SING  A  SONG  0'  SHIPWRECK 

Page  14.—  (From  Salt-Water  Poems  and  Ballads) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Sea-Fever.") 

This  was  written  while  Mr.  Masefield  was  a  very  young  man,  still 
serving  before  the  mast. 

Do  you  like  the  poem's  being  written  in  dialect?  What  details  give 
vhidness?  humor?  What  shows  that  the  sailor  is  not  so  callous  as  he 
may  seem?  Should  you  have  liked  a  full  account  of  the  rescue? 


PIRATE  TREASURE 

Page  16. —  (From  Heart  of  New  England) 

Abbie  Farwell  Brown  still  lives  in  her  native  city — Boston,  Massa-: 
chusetts.    She  is  a  graduate  of  Radcliffe  College,  and  has  traveled  much 


214  NOTES 

abroad.     She  has  written  many  books  for  children  and  short  stories,  as 
well  as  verse. 

Though  the  age  of  pirates  is  past,  few  people  can  think  long  of  the 
sea  without  thinking  of  a  "Jolly  Roger."  As  the  lady  found  out,  dis- 
tance lends  enchantment,  and  yet — do  you  think  she  wholly  repented 
her  adventuresomeness? 

Do  you  know  "The  Skeleton  in  Armor,"  by  Longfellow? 
These  verses  would  be  splendid  to  set  to  music. 


FOG 

Page  2i.— (From  Chicago  Poems) 

Carl  Sandburg  was  born  in  1878.  Forced  to  leave  school  at  thirteen, 
he  worked  at  six  or  seven  trades  before  enlisting  for  service  in  the 
Spanish-American  War.  After  his  return,  he  put  himself  through 
Lombard  College,  then  roamed  the  Middle  West  as  a  newspaperman,  a 
salesman,  and  an  organizer  for  the  Social-Democratic  party  of  Wis- 
consin. From  1910-1912  he  was  secretary  to  the  mayor  of  Milwaukee. 
He  is  now  an  editorial  writer  on  the  Chicago  Daily  Neics,  and  a 
lecturer  on  poetry,  as  well  as  one  of  the  leading  poets  in  America.  His 
volumes  of  verse  show  a  steady  increase  in  power  to  handle  a  very  free 
technique.  He  uses  no  standard  metres  whatever. 

The  whole  point  of  this  "handful"  is  the  unusual  comparison.  What 
do  you  think  of  it  ? 


BROOKLYN  BRIDGE  AT  DAWN 

Page  21. —  (From  New  Poems) 

Richard  Le  Gallienne  was  born  in  Liverpool,  1866,  and  educated  at 
Liverpool  College.  He  was  engaged  in  business  for  seven  years,  but 
abandoned  it  in  favor  of  literature.  For  about  fifteen  years  he  has 
lived  in  the  United  States.  He  has  written  much,  chiefly  essays  and 
poems. 

Since  this  is  the  first  sonnet  in  the  collection,  and  there  are  many 
others,  make  sure  you  remember  what  a  sonnet 'it — in  respect  to  length, 
divisions,  transitions  of  thought  and  vaiious  rhyme-schemes.  In  spite 
of  the  fact  that  it  is  an  old  and  much-used  form  and  very  difficult,  it 
maintains  tremendous  popularity. 

You  would  find  it  interesting  to  compare  this  with  a  famous  sonnet 
by  Wordsworth,  "On  Westminster  Bridge."  What  is  the  idea  common 


NOTES  215 

to  both?  What  additional  thought  is  found  in  the  closing  lines  of  Mr. 
Le  Gallienne's?  Which  picture  do  you  think  has  more  of  the  elusive 
something  which  we  call  beauty? 


BEN  NAPOLI 

Page  22.— (From  Carminaj 

Thomas  Augustine  Daly  was  born  in  1871.  After  studying  at  Fordham 
University,  he  took  up  newspaper  work,  which  has  been  his  vocation 
ever  since.  He  has  been  general  manager  for  the  Catholic  Standard 
and  Times,  editorial  writer  on  the  Philadelphia  Record,  and  associate 
editor  of  the  Evening  Ledger.  Ke  is  a  member  of  the  American  Press 
Humorists,  and — as  that  implies — a  very  witty  lecturer  and  writer. 
His  volumes  of  verse  have  been  extremery  popular.  Most  of  the  poems 
are  in  Italian  or  Irish  dialect. 

How  often  do  you  think  of  immigrants  as  homesick?  Through  which 
one  of  the  senses  is  poignant  remembrance  apt  to  come? 


CITY  ROOFS 

Page  23.— (From  Today  and  Tomorrow) 

"Charley"  Towne  is  very  popular  in  New  York  because  of  his  genial, 
whole-hearted  interest  in  everything  and  everybody.  He  was  born  in 
Kentucky  (1877)  but  says  he  could  never  be  happy  long  away  from 
New  York.  He  has  been  an  editor  on  various  magazines,  has  written 
words  for  music  by  well-known  composers,  and  published  several  volumes 
of  verse. 

Have  you  been  up  to  the  top  of  the  Metropolitan  tower,  or  seen  a 
similar  view  of  any  great  city?  Does  the  thought  of  the  poem  seem 
natural?  depressing?  Would  the  thought  of  the  last  stanza  occur  to 
you?  Do  you  believe  there  are  more  bad  people  in  the  world  than  good 
ones? 

BROADWAY 

Page  23. —  (From  Poems  and  Ballads) 

Hermann  Hagedorn  was  born  in  1882.  He  graduated  from  Harvard 
in  1907,  and  from  1909-11  was  instructor  in  English  there.  He  first 
achieved  reputation  through  his  plays;  since,  he  has  written  poems, 
translations,  and  fiction.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Vigilantes 
(1916)  and  lately  has  been  on  the  Executive  Committee  of  the  Roosevelt 
Memorial  Association.  He  not  only  owns,  but  runs,  a  farm  in  Con- 
necticut. 

What  three  things  about  the  Broadway  evening  crowds  suggest  the 


216  NOTES 

comparison?  Why  should  they  be  called  "far"  when  the  writer  was 
probably  jostling  elbows  with  them?  Does  the  figure  of  speech  become 
too  involved? 

THE  PEDDLER 

Page  24. —  (From  Poems  and  Ballads) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  preceding  poem.) 

Point  out  all  the  differences  you  see  between  this  poem  and  "Broad- 
way." Should  you  think  they  were  by  the  same  author?  Which  do 
you  like  better? 


ROSES  IN  THE  SUBWAY 

Page  25.— (From  Poems) 

Dana  Burnet  was  born  in  1888,  in  Cincinnati.  He  studied  law  at 
Cornell,  but  soon  turned  to  newspaper  work.  From  1911-1918  he  was 
with  the  New  York  Evening  Sun.  (In  the  winter  of  1917-18  the  81111 
sent  him  to  France  as  a  special  writer.)  He  now  devotes  himself  almost 
entirely  to  his  writing.  He  has  published  much  fiction,  as  well  as 
poetry. 

What  line  shows  you  that  the  roses  mean  a  great  deal  to  the  girl? 
Why  do  they?  What  might  have  been  the  thoughts  of  some  other  fellow- 
passengers  ? 

THE  FACTORIES 

Page  26. —  (From  Factories) 

Margaret  Widdemer  was  born  in  Pennsylvania.  She  was  educated  at 
home,  and  attended  Drexel  Institute  Library  School.  Since  1912  she 
has  contributed  to  well-known  magazines,  writing  fiction  and  essays 
as  well  as  verse.  In  1919  she  married  Robert  Haven  Schauffler.  She 
has  recently  brought  out  an  anthology  of  ghost-poems,  called  The 
Haunted  Hour,  which  you  might  find  interesting. 

How  far  do  you  think  each  individual  is  responsible  for  general  social 
/ibuses?  The  last  few  years  have  wrought  great  changes  in  conditions 
of  labor!  is  there  still  room  for  complaint? 

PRAYERS  OF  STEEL 

Page  27. —  (From  Cornhuskers) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Fog.") 

This  same  theme — the  fearful  beauty  and  the  big  meaning  of  a  huge 


NOTES  217 

industry — is  to  be  found  in  the  title  poem  of  Mr.  Sandburg's  new 
volume,  Smoke  and  Steel. 

What  in  the  poem  shows  the  author's  vivid  imagination?  His  in- 
terest in  a  new  social  order?  His  aspiration? 

Several  critics  have  said  that  in  structure  this  reminded  one  of  the 
Psalms.  If  you  doubt  it,  look  up  Psalm  iUO,  and  write  it  out  in  ten 
lines  of  free  verse.  You  will  be  astonished  at  the  similarity.  The 
Psalms,  you  know,  were  poetry — intended  to  be  sung — and  our  Bible 
translators  kept  them  wonderfully  rhythmic.  They  are  prose  only  in 
form. 

ELLIS  PARK 

Page  28. —  (From  Poetry;  A  Magazine  of  Verse) 

Helen  Hoyt  was  born  in  Connecticut,  and  educated  at  private  schools. 
She  graduated  from  Barnard  College  in  1909.  Since  then,  her  home  has 
been  in  the  Middle  West.  She  taught  for  awhile,  then  worked  in  an 
office  ( near  Ellis  Park ) ,  and  finally,  as  a  secretary,  came  into  the  office 
of  Poetry.  In  1918  she  was  made  an  associate  editor,  but  resigned 
shortly  before  her  marriage.  She  has  contributed  to  many  magazines. 

Ellis  Park  is  in  Chicago. 

What  is  the  most  appealing  thing  about  this  poem? 


THE  PARK 

Page  29. —  (From  Poems) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Roses  in  the  Subway.") 
Do  you  see  any  difference  between  the  diction  of  this  poem  and  that 
of  "'Roses  in  the  Subway,"  or  that  of  the  preceding  poem  by  Miss  Hoyt? 
What  do  "marge,"  "heart  of  Arcady,"  "burgeoning"  mean?     In  what 
sense  has  this  poem  a  wider  application  than  the  preceding  one? 


AT  TWILIGHT 

Page  30. —  (From  You  and  I) 

Americans  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  Harriet  Monroe  for  the  interest 
which  she  has  stimulated  in  poetry.  She  is  the  founder  and  editor  of 
Poetry,  a  Magazine  of  Verse,  which  has  given  encouragement  and  oppor- 
tunity to  many  young  American  poets.  She  is  also  the  author  of  several 
volumes  of  verse,  and  edited,  with  Alice  Corbin  Henderson,  an  inter- 
esting anthology,  The  New  Poetry.  She  was  born  and  has  always  lived 
in  Chicago. 

The  city  is  Chicago,  but  it  might  be  almost  any  great  city  on  a  rainy 


218  NOTES 

night.     Should  you  call  the  picture  mainly  literal,  mainly  suggestive, 
or  mainly  imaginative? 


IN  LADY  STREET 

Page  31. —  (From  Poems) 

John  Drinkwater  was  born  in  1882.  He  has  published  essays,  poems, 
and  plays,  and  has  long  been  interested  in  problems  of  the  stage.  He 
is  general  manager  of  the  Birmingham  Repertory  Theater.  He  became 
famous  over-night  with  the  production  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  which  had 
an  amazing  run  in  London  before  its  huge  success  here.  He  made  a 
lecture  tour  of  the  States  in  1921. 

Do  you  think  that  poetry  is  poetry  when  it  describes  ugly  things? 
(This  question  has  been  debated  for  hundreds  of  years.)  What,  of 
course,  is  the  point  of  the  ugliness  here?  Should  you  judge  that  most 
of  Mr.  Drinkwater's  poems  were  about  the  city  or  about  the  country! 


Page  34. —  (From  Collected  Poems) 

Alfred  Noyes,  who  was  born  in  1880,  is  an  Englishman  by  birth,  and 
an  Oxford  graduate.  Recently,  however,  he  has  spent  much  time  in  the 
United  States,  not  only  lecturing,  but  occupying  a  professor's  chair  at 
Princeton  University,  so  that  many  Americans  are  coming  to  look 
upon  him  as  an  "adopted"  poet  of  their  own.  (Perhaps  he  would  not 
regard  this  as  a  compliment! )  During  the  war  he  served  for  a  time  in 
the  British  Foreign  Office,  and  has  been  created  C.  B.  E.  He  has  written 
essays  and  fiction,  but  the  bulk  of  his  work  is  poetry,  in  which  line 
popular  opinion  ranks  him  with  Kipling  and  Masefield. 

The  street-organ,  at  least  in  America,  will  soon  be  a  thing  of  the 
past.  (Why?)  Where,  then,  may  you  watch  the  same  miracle  of  the 
effect  of  music  on  different  people?  Would  the  effect  on  these  men  and 
women  be  the  same  at  any  time  of  day?  (Apropos  of  the  ''rowing-man," 
that  sport  has  always  been  one  of  Mr.  Noyes'  hobbies.)  Why  does  the 
poet  introduce  so  much  repetition,  and  so  many  variations  of  a  few 
ideas?  Is  the  "lilac  time"  song  intended  to  be  an  imitation  of  the 
average  ragtime  ditty,  or  is  it  too  good  for  that?  Why  has  the  poem 
appealed  so  strongly  to  hundreds  of  readers? 

THE  GREEN  INN 

Page  43. —  (From  Scribner's  Magazine) 

Theodosia  Garrison  Faulks  was  born  in  Newark,  1874,  and  educated 
at  private  schools.  She  was  married  in  1898,  and  again  in  1911.  She 


NOTES  219 

has   published   several  volumes   of   poems,   and   contributed   to   leading 
magazines. 

An  extended  figure  like  this  is  hard  to  carry  through  without  a  slip. 
What  parts  of  it  do  you  think  are  most  successfully  done?  Notice,  too, 
the  rather  unusual  rhyme-scheme. 


THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN 

Page  44. —  (From  Rudyard  Kipling's  Terse — Inclusive  Edition) 
There  are  few  parts  of  the  world  which  Rudyard  Kipling  has  not 
seen.  He  was  born  in  Bombay,  1865;  went  to  England  to  be  educated; 
returned  to  India  and  wrote  for  the  Anglo-Indian  press  from  1882-1889; 
then  traveled  in  China,  Japan,  America,  Africa,  and  Australasia.  For 
some  time  he  lived  in  Vermont.  (He  had  already  become  so  famous 
that  while  there  he  used  to  be  annoyed  by  autograph  fiends,  who  would 
even  buy  his  checks,  given  to  local  dealers,  for  the  sake  of  the  signature ! ) 
Since  then,  he  has  made  his  home  in  England.  In  1907,  he  won  the 
Nobel  Prize  for  Literature.  His  work  is  astonishing,  not  only  for  its 
vigor,  but  for  its  versatility.  His  poems  fill  an  enormous  volume 
(Inclusive  Edition,  1885-1918).  He  is  an  acknowledged  master  of  short 
story  writing,  whether  the  stories  be  of  Anglo-Indian  life  (Plain  Tales 
from  the  Hills),  children's  stories  (the  Jungle  Books  and  Just  So 
Stories)  or  tales  of  ghosts  and  terror  (The  Phantom  Rickshaw,  At  the 
End  of  the  Passage,  The  Mark  of  the  Beast).  Of  his  novels,  Kim  is 
already  a  classic. 

Which  call  of  the  Red  Gods  do  you  hear  most  clearly  ?  Where  would 
you  go  if  it  were  the  one  given  in  stanza  III?  in  stanza  IV?  What  is 
meant  by  "  'Send  your  road  is  clear  before  you?"  Why  do  you  think 
the  poet  chose  the  Indian  figure  of  speech  as  a  sort  of  background  for 
his  vivid  pictures? 


TO  THE  THAWING  WIND 

Page  48. —  (From  A  Boy's  Will) 

Robert  Frost  was  born  in  San  Francisco,  1875,  but  his  education  and 
life  has  been  in  New  England,  and  all  his  affection  centers  on  its  hill- 
side farms,  its  stone  walls,  its  taciturn,  conservative  villagers.  He  has 
been  a  farmer  himself,  also.  He  has  taught  a  great  deal — grade  school, 
academy,  normal  school,  and  college.  From  1912-15  he  was  in  England. 
He  is  now  at  Ann  Arbor,  Michigan.  He  spends  much  time  on  his  farm 
at  Franconia,  N.  H. 

Why  is  the  poet  anxious  for  the  thawing  wind  to  come?  Have  you 
ever  seen  a  window  "flow"  during  a  hard  rain?  What  is  meant  by — 


220  NOTES 

"leave  the  sticks 
Like  a  hermit's  crucifix"  i 

When   you   read   the"  poem,   take   particular    care   to   bring   out   the 
humorous  climax. 


MISTER  HOP-TOAD 

Page  49. —  (From  Songs  o'  Cheer) 

People  in  Indiana  are  so  proud  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley  that  they 
have  made  his  birthday  a  state  holiday.  He  was  born  in  1853,  and  died 
in  1916.  He  tried  sign-painting,  acting,  and  newspaper  work  before 
he  devoted  himself  to  literature.  Much  of  his  verse  is  in  the  Hoosier 
dialect,  but  his  "straight  English"  verses,  like  "An  Old  Sweetheart 
of  Mine"  have  also  been  much  quoted.  Of  his  many  volumes,  The 
Raggedy  Man  and  The  Little  Orphant  Annie  Book  are  two  that  you 
would  like. 

Do  you  know  Robert  Burns'  poem  "To  a  Mouse"?  If  you  don't, 
hunt  it  up  and  compare  it  with  this.  There  are  some  interesting 
similarities,  and  some  interesting  differences  which  are  due  to  the 
different  nationalities,  times  and  temperaments  of  the  poets. 

One  word  may  puzzle  you.  "Mind"  in  the  3d  verse  means  "remember," 
in  this  dialect. 

TO  A  POET 
(BY  SPBING) 

Page  50. —  (From  Baubles) 

Carolyn  Wells — Mrs.  Hadwin  Houghton,  since  1918 — has  given 
people  many  an  hour  of  delight  with  her  nonsense  poems  and  parodies. 
Look  over  sometimes  A  Parody  Anthology,  A  Satire  Anthology,  and 
A  Whimsey  Anthology.  She  has  also  written  many  children's  books. 
She  has  been  engaged  in  literary  work  since  1900. 

You  know  the  conventional  type  of  "Spring  is  here"  poem.  It  is 
a  case  where  "so  much  has  been  said,  and  so  well  said"  that  the  god- 
dess's protest  seems  quite  natural.  What  did  Chaucer  say  about 
"Aprile  with  his  shoures  sote?"  What  are  some  of  Shakespeare  s 
spring  songs?  Herrick's? 


MAY  IS  BUILDING  HER  HOUSE 

Page   51. —  (From   The  Lonely  Dancer) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Brooklyn  Bridge  at  Dawn.") 


NOTES  221 

Do  you  think  this  poem  would  draw  a  protest  from  sated  "Spring," 
or  is  it  a  trifle  unusual? 
What  does  "arras"  mean  ? 
Which  lines  do  YOU  like  the  least?     The  best? 


A  MOUNTAIN  GATEWAY 

Page  53. —  (From  April  Airs) 

Bliss  Carman  is  a  native  of  New  Brunswick.  Born  in  1861,  he 
icceived  his  education  there,  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and 
at  Harvard.  He  read  law  two  years,  traveled,  and  was  in  editorial 
work.  Since  1894  he  has  devoted  himself  to  literature,  and  has  brought 
out  many  small  volumes  of  poetry,  April  Airs  being  a  recent  one. 

My  particular  "mountain  gateway"  is  in  New  Hampshire.  Where 
is  yours? 

Do  you  remember  about  Daphne?  If  you  do  not,  look  up  the  story 
in  Gayley's  Classic  Myths. 

HAYMAKING 

Page  54. —  (From  Poems] 

Edward  Thomas — Welsh,  Spanish  and  English  by  descent — was  born 
in  1878.  He  met  death  on  the  battlefield  of  Arras,  April  9,  1917.  In 
his  thirty-nine  years  he  had  published  essays,  reviews,  biographies,  and 
one  volume  of  verse.  The  latter  is  dedicated  to  Robert  Frost,  whom 
Mr.  Thomas  met  while  he  was  in  England,  and  whose  work  he  admired. 

In  no  two  periods  of  English  literature  have  poets  described  the 
beauty  of  country  life  and  scenery  in  quite  the  same  way.  Perhaps 
you  remember  Milton's  description  of  a  summer  noon  in  the  country: 

"Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
Fnom  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead." 

At  first  reading,  the  conventional  pastoral  names  familiar  to  Milton's 
readers  make  the  lines  sound  artificial  to  us.  Yet  doubtless  Milton 
was  remembering  with  keen  appreciation  just  the  sort  of  scene 


222  NOTES 

described  more  fully  here;  and  three  hundred  years  hence,  some 
poet  will  be  mirroring  the  beauty  of  a  similar  scene  according  to  the 
fashion  of  his  age.  Just  at  present  we  are  favoring  realistic  detail, 
'carefully  observed  but  touched  with  unexpected  bits  of  imagination. 
Point  out  vivid  instances  in  this  poem. 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  DAY  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 

Page  56. —  (From  The  Congo) 

If  Nicholas  Vachel  Lindsay  could  be  persuaded  to  write  an  auto- 
biography, it  would  make  fascinating  reading.  So  far  as  facts  go 
— he  was  born  in  Illinois,  1879,  educated  at  Hiram  College,  Chicago 
Art  Institute,  and  New  York  School  of  Art;  lectured  for  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
and  stumped  for  the  Anti-Saloon  League;  in  1912  walked  from  Illinois 
to  New  Mexico,  distributing  rhymes  in  return  for  a  night's  lodging, 
and  speaking  in  behalf  of  "The  Gospel  of  Beauty."  For  the  last  five 
years,  he  has  lectured  and  recited  his  poetry  in  many  parts  of  the 
United  States.  In  1920  he  gave  recitals  in  England.  The  next  summer 
he  tramped  in  the  Rockies  with  the  English  author  Stephen  Graham. 
He  spends  a  large  part  of  every  year  at  home  writing.  You  would  like 
"The  Congo"  and  "The  Chinese  Nightingale,"  both  too  long  to  reprint 
in  this  volume.  The  Village  Magazine  (privately  printed)  contains 
dozens  of  symbolic  and  beautiful  illustrations  for  poems. 

In  what  sense  is  this  poem  really  built  around  the  title?  Does  the 
imagery  interfere  with  the  accurateness  of  the  description? 


A  GREETING 

Page  57. —  (From   Collected  Poems) 

William  Henry  Davies  was  born  in  1870,  of  Welsh  parents.  He  was 
apprenticed  to  the  picture-frame-making  trade,  but  after  his  term 
was  over  left  England  and  became  a  tramp  in  America,  for  six  years. 
Returning  to  England,  he  made  several  walking  tours  as  a  peddler  of 
notions  and  as  a  street  singer.  His  first  volume  of  poems  appeared 
when  he  was  thirty-four.  Since  then,  he  has  published  many  other 
volumes,  which  have  been  collected  and  printed  in  one  American 
edition. 

What  is  it  about  this  poem  that  almost  makes  you  wish  you  were 
a  tramp  yourself? 

A  VAGABOND  SONG 

Page  58. —  (From  More  Songs  of  Vagabondia) 

The  note  on  Bliss  Carman  will  be  found  under  "A  Mountain  Gate- 
way." This  poem  is  from  the  second  of  a  series  of  three  small 


NOTES  223 

volumes  which  were  written  in  collaboration  with  Richard  Hovey. 
He  was  a  journalist,  actor,  dramatist,  poet,  and  lecturer  \vho  died 
in  1900,  when  he  was  only  thirty-six. 

Do  you  think  autumn  "sets  the  gypsy  blood  astir"  more  than  spring? 

Would  this  poem  be  good  to  set  to  music — say,  for  a  Boys'  Glee  Club? 


THREE  PIECES  ON  THE  SMOKE  OF  AUTUMN 

Page    58. —  (From    Cornhuskers) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Fog.") 

Why  do  you  think  the  poet  grouped  these  three  short  pieces  together  ? 
How  does  the  predominant  feeling  here  differ  from  that  in  the  preceding 
autumn  poem  ?  In  the  second  piece,  why  is  the  passage  in  parenthesis 
Inserted?  All  of  this  is  "free"  verse — but  what  devices  as  old  as  poetry 
itself  are  skillfully  employed? 


GOD'S  WORLD 

Page  60. —  (From  Renascence  and  Other  Poems) 

E<kia  St.  Vincent  Millay  achieved  her  reputation  very  young.  She 
was  born  in  Maine,  in  1892,  and  is  a  graduate  of  Vassar  College.  Her 
most  famous  long  poem,  "Renascence,"  was  written  when  she  was 
nineteen.  Since,  she  has  contributed  to  many  magazines,  and  has 
brought  out  several  volumes  of  poems. 

Here  is  still  a  third  way  in  which  the  beauty  of  autumn  affects 
people.  Do  you  think  it  is  more  typical  of  a  woman  than  of  a  man? 


AFTER  APPLE-PICKING 

Page  60. —  (From  North  of  Boston) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Thawing  Wind.'') 
In  that  strange  land  of  delicious  drowsiness  through  which  we  pass 
to  the  sea  of  sleep,  oonscious  remembrance  becomes  twisted  into  images 
half-real  and  half-fantastic.  What  shows  the  gradual  blurring  of  the 
apple-picker's  mind?  Is  the  picture  of  the  day  in  the  orchard  still 
fairly  clear?  Do  you  like  the  concluding  fancy?  Notice  the  apparent 
carelessness  of  rhyme  and  meter.  Does  it  satisfy  your  ear? 

BROTHER  BEASTS 

Page  62. —  (From  Wraiths  and  Realities) 

Cale   Young   Rice   is  a  native   of   Kentucky.      He   was  born   in   1872 
-  and  educated  at  Cumberland  University  and  Harvard.     He  has  written 


224  NOTES 

many  poetic  dramas  and  poems.  His  wife  is  the  author  of  Mrs.  Wiggs 
of  the  Cabbage  Patch,  which  was  published  the  year  before  their 
marriage. 

In  what  way  is  this  poem  rather  unusual? 

Notice  that  there  are  few  actual  rhymes,  and  yet  each  stanza  gives 
the  effect  of  being  much  rhymed.  How  do  you  account  for  it? 


BIRCHES 

Page   63. —  (From  Mountain  Interval) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Thawing  Wind.") 

Did  you  ever  think  of  trying  this  sport  yourself?  Which  page  of 
the  poem  do  you  think  is  most  "poetical?" 

Read  the  first  page  and  consider  it,  for  a  minute,  simply  as  blank 
verse.  How  does  it  differ  from  blank  verse  you  have  already  known? 


HIGHMOUNT 

Page  65. —  (From   These   Times) 

Louis  Untermeyer  is  a  man  of  many  interests — by  vocation  a  designer 
and  manufacturer  of  jewelry,  by  avocation  a  poet,  translator,  parodist, 
lecturer,  editor  and  critic.  He  was  born  in  1885,  was  educated  in  New 
York  and  has  always  lived  there.  One  very  enjoyable  volume  of  his 
parodies  in  referred  to  under  "The  Sunken  Garden."  His  two  recently 
published  anthologies,  Modern  American  Poetry  and  Modern  British 
Poetry,  are  ones  which  you  would  like. 

What  did  the  Psalmist  say  about  the  hills,  long,  long  ago? 

How  does  this  poem  differ  from  "A  Mountain  Gateway?" 


A  VIGNETTE 

Page   67. —  (From   Collected  Poems) 

Robert  Bridges  has  been  the  poet  laureate  of  England  since  1918. 
(What  great  poets  have  formerly  held  this  office?)  He  was  born  in 
1844.  He  is  an  Oxford  man,  and  for  years  was  a  physician  by  pro- 
fession. He  fias  written  various  plays,  poems  and  critical  essays; 
his  latest  volume  of  verse,  October  and  Other  Lyrical  Poems,  (1920) 
has  been  highly  praised  by  critics  in  England. 

What  trace  of  the  older  "poetic  diction"  do  you  notice  here?  Is  the 
poem  modern  in  spirit?  What  interpretation  is  here  given  of  the 
beauty  of  Nature? 


NOTES  225 


Page  68. —  (From  Poems) 

Theodore  Maynard,  though  still  in  his  thirties,  has  had  a  checkered 
career.  Born  in  India,  the  son  of  a  missionary,  he  studied  first  for  the 
Congregational  ministry  and  then  for  the  Unitarian  pulpit;  fina/ly  he 
became  a  Roman  Catholic.  He  spent  two  years  in  America,  where, 
owing  to  unforeseen  emergencies,  he  worked  as  a  factory  hand,  a  bill 
poster,  a  book  canvasser,  and  a  hand  on  a  cattle  boat.  Soon  after 
returning  to  England  in  1911,  he  began  to  write  poetry,  and  from 
1916  on  has  been  making  a  reputation  for  himself,  being  a  lecturer 
and  critic  as  well  as  a  poet. 

I  recently  heard  a  very  sweet  and  religious  but  rather  narrow- 
minded  old  lady  say  that  she  thought  this  poem  was  sacrilegious. 
Do  you  see  why  she  thought  so?  What  lines  of  the  poem  show  un- 
mistakably the  love  and  deep  reverence  which  lie  behind  the  old 
coriception  ? 

GOOD  COMPANY 

Page  70. —  (From  Blue  Smoke) 

Karle  Wilson  Baker  was  born  in  Arkansas,  1878;  was  educated  at 
Little  Rock  Academy  and  the  University  of  Chicago;  married  in 
1907.  She  has  published  only  one  volume  of  verse,  but  has  contributed 
stories,  essays,  and  poems  to  various  leading  magazines,  and  writes 
nonsense  fairy  books  for  children. 

Why  is  the  last  line  italicized?  Which  line  do  you  think  gives 
the  prettiest  picture? 


IRRADIATIONS— X 

Page  70. —  (From  Irradiations;  Sand  and  Spray) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  III  from  Irradiations.) 

Is  the  odd  image  justified  ?    Is  it  consistently  carried  through  ?    What 

is  a  howdah? 

(Mr.    Fletcher    has    long    felt    the    influence    of    Oriental    art    and 

literature. ) 

TREES 

Page  71. —  (From  Poems,  Essays  and  Letters) 

Joyce  Kilmer  was  a  young  American  soldier-poet  whose  death  will 
long  be  mourned.     He  was  born  in  New  Jersey,  1886;    graduated  from 


226  NOTES 

Columbia  in  1908;  taught  school  and  then  became  a  newspaper  man.  He 
was  connected  longest  with  the  New  York  Sunday  Times.  On  America's 
declaration  of  war,  he  enlisted  immediately  as  a  private.  Officially  he 
was  a  sergeant,  but  was  acting  as  adjutant  when  he  was  killed,  on 
July  30,  1918. 

Why   has   this   little   poem   been    so    much    admired    and    so    widely 
quoted?     Do  you  personally  prefer  this  or  the  preceding  one? 


NIGHT-PIECE 

Page  71. —  (From  The  Old  Huntsman} 

An  interesting  sketch  of  Siegfried  Bassoon's  work  and  personality, 
written  by  his  friend  Robert  Nichols,  forms  a  preface  to  his  second 
volume,  Counter-Attack.  Briefly:  Mr.  Sassoon  was  born  in  1886;  was 
jducated  at  Marlborough  and  Christchurch  (Oxford)  ;  served  through- 
out the  war  as  captain  in  the  Royal  Welsh  Fusiliers,  both  in  France  £tnd 
Palestine,  where  he  received  the  M.  C. ;  and  since  then  has  been  writing 
and  lecturing,  having  made  a  tour  of  the  United  States  in  1920. 

He  is  best  known  as  a  poet  of  the  war.  Why,  then,  should  this 
earlier  poem  be  included  in  this  collection?  What  are  fauns?  Dryads? 
What  vowel,  skillfully  used  throughout,  somehow  gives  the  effect  of 
night  noises  in  the  woods?  Do  you  remember  the  "blue  meager  hag" 
passage  in  Comusf 


THE  FINAL  SPURT 

Page  72. —  (From  Reynard  the  Fox) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Sea-Fever.") 

These  seventy-eight  lines  are  really  the  climax  of  the  long  narra- 
tive poem  which  tells  the  story  of  a  whole  day's  thrilling  fox-hunt. 
The  fox  has  shaken  off  his  pursuers  twice,  but  this  time  he  seems 
doomed.  After  reading  this,  you  surely  will  want  to  know  whether 
the  horses  too,  jumped  the  hedge,  and  whether  Reynard  finally  escaped. 
Get  a  copy  of  the  book  and  read  the  conclusion.  It  is  rather  unexpected, 
in  that  it  satisfies  both  our  sympathy  for  the  hunted  fox  and  our 
sympathy  for  his  pursuers.  For  although  we,  as  Americans,  have 
been  bred  to  consider  fox-hunting  a  cruel  sport — a  scruple  which  rarely 
occurs  to  an  Englishman — as  we  follow  Mr.  Masefield's  huntsmen  and 
horses  and  dogs  throughout  the  poem,  we  grow  so  fond  of  them,  and 
so  excited  with  them  that  we  are  ready  to  forgive  their  almost 
prayerful  profanity  and  should  feel  really  disappointed  if  they  had 
their  long  day's  chase  for  nothing. 


NOTES  227 


THE  HORSE  THIEF 

Page  75. —  (From  Burglars  of  the  Zodiac) 

William  Rose  Benet  was  born  in  1886,  educated  at  Albany  Academy 
and  Yale.  Before  the  war  he  brought  out  three  volumes  of  verse, 
and  was  assistant  editor  of  the  Century  Magazine.  After  his  honorable 
discharge  from  the  Air  Service,  he  went  into  the  advertising  business, 
then  resumed  his  literary  career,  publishing  Burglars  of  the  Zodiac. 
He  is  now  Associate  Editor  of  the  Literary  Review  (New  York  Eve- 
ning Post). 

How  do  you  know  that  only  a  lover  of  horses  could  have  written 
this  poem?  What  makes  it  different  from  any  other  poem  about 
horses  that  you  have  ever  read?  Why  is  it  a  good  specimen  of 
the  type  called  "dramatic  monologue?" 

Bellerophon  rode  the  winged  horse  Pegasus. 

Sagittarius,  "the  archer,"  (sometimes  represented  as  a  Centaur, 
in  older  charts)  is  one  of  the  constellations  and  a  sign  of  the  Zodiac. 
The  idea  of  the  Zodiac  originated  with  the  Babylonians,  who  not 
only  named  stars  and  planets  after  their  gods,  but  positively  identified 
the  two. 

THE  RETURN 

Page  83. —  (From   Collected  Poems) 

Wilfred  Wilson  Gibson  was  born  in  1878.  In  his  early  thirties  he 
was  a  social  worker,  living  in  the  East  End  of  London.  During  part 
of 'the  war,  he  served — quite  characteristically,  as  a  private — in  the 
British  Army.  In  1917,  he  made  a  lecture  tour  of  the  United  States. 
He  has  written  many  small  volumes  of  verse,  most  of  which  have  been 
collected  in  one  large  volume.  Some  of  the  best  verses  are  war-poems; 
the  others  deal  with  "the  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 

What  is  the  unexpected  twist  at  the  end?  Why  is  this  suggestion 
worse  than  the  one  which  probably  occurred  to  you — that  the  boy 
might  be  killed? 


THE  ROAD  OF  THE  REFUGEES 

Page  83. —  ( From  The  Sad   Years ) 

Lora  Sigerson  was  a  very  sensitive,  gifted  young  Irish  writer,  a 
member  of  a  family  who  were  prominent  socially  and  intellectually, 
and  actively  interested  in  Irish  politics.  She  married  Mr.  Clement 
Shorter  in  1897.  She  lived  afterwards  in  England,  but  was  always 
passionately  devoted  to  Ireland,  and  worry  over  the  situation  there 


228  NOTES 

doubtless    hastened    her    death    in    January,    1918.      She    had    already 
suffered  much  from  the  tragedy  of  the  Great  War. 

If  you  did  not  know,  how  could  you  guess  that  this  poem  was 
written  by  a  woman?  Which  one  of  your  senses  is  particularly  affected 
by  reading  the  poem?  By  what  poetic  device  is  this  effect  accom- 
plished? What  is  there  rather  unusual  about  the  meter? 


THE  BOMBARDMENT 

Page  84. —  (From   Men,   Women,  and   Ghosts) 

Amy  Lowell  was  born  in  1874,  of  a  distinguished  Massachusetts 
family.  She  was  educated  at  private  schools,  and  has  traveled 
widely.  An  interesting  and  significant  feature  of  her  poetic  career 
is  that  she  spent  years  in  learning  her  craft  before  attempting 
to  publish  a  single  poem.  They  paid.  Since  1912  she  has  published 
many  books  of  verse,  literary  criticism,  and  essays,  and  by  them 
has  become  widely  known  for  her  radical  yet  soundly  defended  poetic 
theories.  It  would  seem  as  if  there  were  few  experiments  left  for 
her  to  try.  She  has  put  free  verse  on  a  sound  critical  basis,  and  has 
gone  a  step  further  in  her  "polyphonic  prose"  pieces,  of  which  this  is 
an  example. 

This  is  what  Miss  Lowell  says  about  "polyphonic  prose"  in  her 
Tendencies  in  Modern  American  Poetry: 

"  'Polyphonic  prose'  is  not  a  prose  form,  although  being  printed  as 
prose,  many  people  have  found  it  difficult  to  understand  this.  It  is 
printed  in  that  manner  for  convenience,  as  it  changes  its  character 
so  often,  with  every  wave  of  emotion,  in  fact.  The  word  'polyphonic' 
is  its  keynote.  'Polyphonic'  means  'many-voiced'  and  the  form  is  so 
called  because  it  makes  use  of  all  the  'voices'  of  poetry,  viz:  meter 
vers  libre,  assonance,  alliteration,  rhyme,  and  return.  It  employs 
every  form  of  rhythm,  even  prose  rhythm  at  times,  but  usually  holds 
no  particular  one  for  long.  It  is  an  exceedingly  difficult  form  to  write, 
as  so  much  depends  upon  the  poet's  taste.  The  rhymes  may  come 
at  the  ends  of  the  cadences,  or  may  appear  in  close  juxtaposition  to 
each  other,  or  may  be  only  distantly  related.  It  is  an  excellent  medium 
for  dramatic  portrayal,  for  stories  in  scenes,  as  it  permits  of  great 
vividness  of  presentation." 

First  of  all,  read  The  Bombardment  through  aloud  at  least  twice. 
By  that  time,  your  ear  will  have  told  you  that  this  is  no  prose,  even 
though  it  is  written  as  such.  You  must  have  noticed  many  cases  of 
assonance,  alliteration,  rhyme  and  return.  Pick  out  a  few  instances 
of  each.  Read  it  again,  trying  especially  now  to  pick  out  phrases 
which  swing  into  regular  meter  for  an  instant.  You  can  try  all  sorts 


NOTES  229 

of  interesting  tests  on  it,  if  you  have  time.  But  don't  neglect  to  read 
it  aloud  once  more  as  a  whole,  not  stopping  to  think  about  any  of  the 
poetic  devices.  Subconsciously,  this  time,  you  will  find  your  ear 
satisfied,  and  you  will  be  free  to  notice  the  wonderful  succession  of 
pictures. 


THE  OLD  HOUSES  OF  FLANDERS 

Page  87. —  (From  On  Heaven  and  Poems  Written  on  Active  Service) 
Ford  Madox  Ilueffer  was  born  in  1873,  the  grandson  of  the  famous 
English  painter  Ford  Madox  Brown.  His  father  was  German,  but 
had  an  intense  hatred  of  Prussianism.  It  is  not  surprising,  therefore, 
that  he  immediately  sought  a  commission  in  the  British  Army  during 
the  war,  although  he  was  over  age,  and  was  abandoning  a  prosperous 
literary  career.  He  was  the  first  editor  of  The  English  Review,  and. 
has  written  fiction,  essays,  and  biography  as  well  as  poetry. 

How  does  this  poem  differ  from  the  preceding  one?     What  is  rather 
unusual  about  the  conception?     Is  the  strictly  impersonal  tone  effective? 


RHEIMS  CATHEDRAL— 1914 

Page  88. —  (From  Afternoons  of  April) 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling  graduated  from  Smith  College  in  1899,  and 
afterwards  studied  music  and  languages  at  Heidelberg  and  Paris. 
She  was  married  in  1905.  She  has  been  instructor  and  professor  in  the 
English  Department  at  Smith  since  1914.  She  has  brought  out 
several  volumes  of  verse. 

Word  of  the  havoc  wrought  upon  Rheims  Cathedral  came  like 
the  news  of  a  friend's  death  to  those  who  knew  and  loved  the  magnificent 
building,  with  its  age-old  beauty  of  detail.  For  whom  does  that 
beauty  still  exist?  Of  what  lines  in  II  Penseroso  do  lines  9-12  remind 
you?  Do  you  know  Wordsworth's  sonnet,  "On  King's  Chapel, 
Cambridge"? 

THE  OLD  SOLDIER 

Page   89. —  (From   Flower   of   youth] 

Katherine  Tynan  (Mrs.  Hinkson)  was  born  in  Dublin  and  educated 
in  a  Drogheda  convent.  Her  first  volume  of  verse  was  published 
in  1885.  Since  then,  she  has  brought  out  many  more  volumes,  fiction 
as  well  as  poetry.  She  did  much  philanthropic  work  during  the 
war,  and  gave  her  two  sons  to  the  British  Army. 

This    poem    was    written    upon    the    death    of    Lord    Roberts,    affoe 


230  NOTES 

tionately  known  to  all  English  soldiers  as  "Bobs."  Do  you  like  the 
thought?  Do  you  like  the  very  concrete  form  given  to  the  idea  of 
God's  tender  care  for  His  children? 


FUNK 

Page  90. —  (From  Rhymes  of  a  Red  Cross  Man) 

Robert  W.  Service,  who  was  born  in  1874,  is  English  by  birth,  Scotch 
by  education,  Canadian,  American,  and  "citizen  of  the  world"  by 
experience.  He  has  farmed,  traveled,  and  worked  in  banks  and  on 
newspapers.  He  spent  eight  years  in  the  Yukon,  and  much  of  his 
poetry  concerns  this  wonderful  land.  He  is  an  ardent  motorist,  and 
through  the  Great  War  drove  a  Red  Cross  ambulance. 

Service  has  been  called  a  disciple  of  Kipling.  Does  this  poem 
show  you  why?  What  are  the  most  vivid  lines?  The  finest?  What 
is  suggested  by  the  steady  beat  of  the  last  line  in  each  stanza? 


THE  DEVOUT  HIGHLANDER 

Page    91. —  (From    Songs   of   the   Shrapnel   Shell) 

Captain  Cyril  Morton  Home  was  one  of  the  English  soldier-poets 
who  gave  his  life.  He  was  trying  to  rescue  a  wounded  soldier  in 
front  of  the  trenches  when  a  shrapnel  shell  burst  overhead  (Jan.  27, 
1916).  He  was  only  twenty-one. 

How  does  this  poem  show  that  Captain  Home  had  a  delicious 
sense  of  humor  as  well  as  a  thorough  understanding  of  Scotch 
characteristics  ? 


THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD 

Page  94. —  (From   The  Spires  of  Oxford) 

Winifred  M.  Letts  was  born  in  1887,  in  Ireland.  She  has  always 
been  much  interested  in  Irish  peasant  life;  in  fact,  an  article  in  the 
Dublin  Review  called  her  "a  poet  of  the  streets."  She  served  as  a 
nurse  at  base  hospitals  during  the  Great  War,  and  that  experience 
resulted  in  a  volume  of  war  poems,  of  which  this  is  the  best  known. 
Besides  verse,  she  has  written  novels,  and  books  for  children. 

What  pictures  do  you  find  here  of  the  peace  and  beauty  of  Oxford? 
About  how  old  are  some  of  "the  hoary  colleges?"  Should  the  sacrifice 
made  by  these  men  be  appreciated  any  more  than  that  made  by  others? 
Do  you  know  the  old  English  carol  of  which  the  last  stanza  gives  an 
echo? 


NOTES  231 


THE  SOLDIER 

Page   95. —  (From   Collected  Poems) 

Rupert  Brooke  was  a  poet  of  very  great  promise.  He  was  born  in 
1887;  educated  at  Rugby  and  Cambridge.  He  studied  in  Munich  and 
traveled  on  the  Continent;  in  1913-1914  he  made  a  trip  to  the  South 
Seas,  via  the  United  States  and  Canada.  He  enlisted  immediately  on 
the  outbreak  of  the  war  and  was  first  sent  to  Antwerp.  A  few  months 
later  he  sailed  for  the  Dardanelles  (with  the  British  Mediterranean 
Expeditionary  Force),  but  never  reached  there,  dying  from  blood-poison- 
ing on  April  23,  1914.  His  grave  is  on  the  island  of  Scyros. 

The  sonnet-sequence  called  "1914"  is  better  known  than  anything 
else  of  Brooke's,  and  of  the  five  sonnets,  this  one  is  most  often  quoted. 
Do  you  see  why  it  has  been  so  highly  praised?  Which  do  you  like  better, 
the  octave  or  the  sestet? 


I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH 

Page  95. —  (From  Poems) 

Alan  Seeger  was  born  in  1888.  He  was  educated  at  various  Eastern 
public  and  private  schools  and  at  Harvard.  Soon  after,  he  sailed  for 
Paris,  where  he  studied  several  years,  until  the  war  broke  out.  He 
immediately  enlisted  in  the  Foreign  Legion  of  France,  and  served  not 
quite  two  years,  being  killed  in  action  on  July  4,  1916. 

Alan  Seeger's  name  is  often  linked  with  Rupert  Brooke's.  They 
were  both  young,  they  both  loved  life  tremendously,  and  they  gave 
it  up  unhesitatingly.  Each,  too,  had  a  strong  presentiment  of  his 
approaching  death. 

Notice  the  contrasts  here,  pointed  by  the  same  constantly  recurring 
thought. 

IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS 

Page  96. —  (From  In  Flanders  Fields) 

John  McCrae  was  a  Canadian,  born  in  1872.  He  took  both  his  A.B. 
and  his  M.D.  at  the  University  of  Toronto,  finishing  in  1898.  During 
1899-1900  he  served  in  South  Africa  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  life  in 
medical  practice,  for  which  he  was  exceptionally  gifted.  He  enlisted 
immediately  on  the  outbreak  of  the  war.  After  a  few  months  at  the 
froiit,  he  was  sent  back  to  No.  3  General  Hospital  at  Boulogne,  vith  the 
rank  of  Lieutenant  Colonel.  His  three  years  of  tireless  service  there 
doubtless  lessened  his  power  to  resist  an  attack  of  pneumonia,  which 
caused  his  death  in  January,  1918. 


232  NOTES 

Why  is  this  poem  more  familiar  to  the  average  reader  than  any 
oilier  poem  of  the  Great  War?  Can  you  determine  why  it  is  so  musical? 
(In  this  connection,  you  might  study  the  first  and  third  stanzas  of 
"The  Solitary  Reaper,"  by  Wordsworth,  where  the  devices  and  effect 
are  much  the  same.  How  does  the  unrhymed  line  in  this  poem  help  it 
still  further?)  In  form,  the  poem  is  a  "rondeau,"  a  difficult  and 
beautiful  metrical  pattern  first  used  by  French  poets. 


Page  97. —  ( From  The  Neio  World ) 

Laurence  Binyon  was  born  in  1869,  and  educated  at  St.  Paul's 
School  and  Oxford.  Since  1893  he  has  held  various  offices  of  trust 
and  honor  in  the  British  Museum.  He.  lectured  in  the  U.  S.  A.  in 
1012  and  1914.  During  the  war,  he  worked  in  a  hospital  in  France, 
and  as  a  volunteer  in  the  anti-aircraft  service. 

Why  do  you  think  it  is  that  this  poem  dealing  with  almost  exactly 
the  same  theme  as  "In  Flanders  Fields"  has  not  had  the  same  popularity? 
In  what  sense  has  this  poem  a  wider  and  a  deeper  thought? 

COUNTER-ATTACK 

Page  98. —  (From   Counter-Attack   and   Other   Poems) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Night-Piece.") 

This  illustrates  a  kind  of  war  verse  which  Sassoon  and  some  other 
young  poets  have  insisted  should  be  written  and  should  be  read.  Do 
you  understand  why  they  thought  so?  Do  you  think,  on  the  whole,  it 
is  more  or  less  effective  than  any  of  the  five  preceding  poems? 


NOON   (I  FROM  "BATTLE") 

Page   99. —  (From  Ardours   and   Endurances) 

Robert  Nichols  was  one  of  those  who  left  "the  shaven  lawns  of 
Oxford"  and  he  came  very  near  finding  the  "bloody  sod."  An  under- 
graduate of  twenty-one,  he  enlisted  immediately  in  1914  and  served 
as  lieutenant  for  a  year,  until  he  was  so  severely  wounded  and  shell- 
shocked  that  he  had  to  be  invalided  out  of  service.  He  was  later 
employed  by  the  British  Ministry  of  Labor.  He  made  a  lecture  tour 
of  the  U.  S.  A.  in  1918-19.  He  has  published  several  volumes  of 
verse. 

What  two  thing?  which  make  the  soldiers'  situation  well-nigh 
unbearable  are  brought  out  vividly  in  thia  brief  sketch?  Is  it  the 
same  sort  of  poetry  as  "Counter-Attack"  ? 


NOTES  233 


TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WAR— 
FOR  THE  FOURTH  TIME 

Page   too. —  (From  Fairies  and  Fusiliers) 

Robert  Graves  was  born  in  1895.  In  spite  of  his  youth,  he  was  a 
captain  in  the  Royal  Welsh  Fusiliers  before  his  army  service  ceased. 
Picked  up  for  dead  on  the  battle-field,  he  is  said  to  have  astounded  the 
stretcher-bearers  by  suddenly  exclaiming:  "I'm  not  dead!  I'm 
damned  if  I'll  die!"  He  has  written  volumes  of  poetry  and  of  poetic 
criticism. 

What  is  the  very  famous  older  poem  which  Mr.  Graves  had  ta 
mind  while  writing  these  verses?  How  would  you  know  this  to  ba  a 
product  of  the  twentieth  century,  as  unmistakably  as  you  would  know 
the  other  to  be  one  of  the  seventeenth? 


RETREAT 

Page  101. —  (From  Poems) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Return.") 

At  the  first  of  the  Mesopotamian  campaign,  the  British  suffered 
reverses  because  of  their  insufficient  numbers  and  extreme  difficulty 
in  establishing  communications.  Very  little,  comparatively,  has  been 
written  about  these  campaigns,  but  from  the  point  of  strategy  they 
were  most  important.  British  Campaigns  in  the  Nearer  East,  by 
Edmund  Lane,  is  an  interesting  recent  work  on  the  subject. 

Mr.  Gibson's  war  poems  generally  concern  the  psychology  of  the 
soldier — that  is,  the  way  war's  horrors  affect  his  mind — rather  than 
war's  horrors  themselves.  Should  you  think  this  kind  of  war  poetry 
would  be  more  or  less  effective  than  that  which  employs  realistic 
description  of  the  horrors? 

It  is  very  unusual  to  find  only  two  rhymes  in  a  sonnet.  What  do 
you  think  was  the  author's  purpose  in  thus  limiting  them,  and  in 
repeating  one  line  so  often? 


Page   102. —  (From  Night  Winds  of  Ardby) 

A.  J.  Eardley  Dawson  was  born  in  1890.  He  wan  educated  at 
Cheltenham  College,  passed  into  the  Cadet  College,  Quetta,  and  was 
commissioned  in  1917.  Sent  to  an  Indian  regiment— the  famous  Queen's 
Rajputs — he  has  served  in  Mesopotamia,  Salonica,  South  Russia, 
Armenia,  Persia,  and  Constantinople. 


234  NOTES 

How  would  you  like  to  march,  fight,  and  sleep  in  an  Asian  desert 
where  during  the  day  the  thermometer  was  above  110°  and  during 
the  night  not  below  80°? 

What  do  you  consider  the  best  line  here? 


DOES  IT  MATTER? 

Page  103. —  (From  Counter- Attack  and  Other  Poems) 
(For    biographical    note,    refer    to    "Night-Piece.") 
What   is   the   method   employed   here   to   make   people    realize   what 
war   means?     Is   it   effective?     Do   you   think  we   have   done   and   are 
doing  enough  for  our  disabled  and  nerve-racked  veterans? 


THE  DAWN  PATROL 

Page  103. —  (From  The  Dawn  Patrol  and  Other  Poems  of  an  Aviator) 
Captain  Paul  Bewsher  was  the  first  airman  to  obtain  notice  as  a 
poet.  He  has  also  won  distinction  as  a  lecturer  and  a  journalist.  He 
was  educated  at  St.  Paul's  School  (London).  He  gained  various  war 
honors  for  exploits  at  Zeebrugge  and  elsewhere  on  the  Belgian  coast. 
With  all  this,  he  is  still  in  his  twenties. 

This  poem,  with  its  beauty,  its  sense  of  soaring,  and  its  realization 
of  the  Great  Guiding  Power,  has  always  reminded  me  of  two  very 
famous  "bird"  poems — one  English,  one  American.  Do  you  know 
them? 

AN  OPEN  BOAT 

Page    105. —  (From   The   Neiv  Morning) 
(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Barrel-Organ.") 
Comparatively   few   poems   have   been   written   about  the   horrors   of 
submarine  warfare.     Does  this  one  gain  in  vividness  by  its  briefness? 
Would  you  rather  have  had  a  longer  poem  describing  the  torpedoing 
of  the  ship,  the  escape  to  the  open  boat,  perhaps  some  brave  deed  of 
the  lover  which  cost  him  his  life?     What  finally  happened  to  them  all? 


ADMIRAL  DUGOUT 

Page    105. —  (From   Small    Craft) 
(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Sailor  Town.") 

Super-dreadnoughts,    cruisers,    and    destroyers    were    not    the    only 
ships    that    protected    the    North    Sea.      The    plucky    little    trawlers 


NOTES  235 

equipped  with  mine-sweeping  apparatus  and  a  few  "barkers"  to  riddle 
chance-met  submarines  played  a  heroic  part  in  the  struggle.  Often 
they  were  commanded  by  men  of  exactly  "Admiral  Dugout's"  type. 

"THE  AVENUE  OF  THE  ALLIES" 

Page  107. —  ( From  The  New  Morning ) 

(For  biographical   note,   refer  to  "The   Barrel-Organ.") 

Throughout  the  Liberty  Loan  campaigns  and  the  great  accompanying 

parades,  Fifth  Avenue    (New  York)   was  a  sight  never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  sober  brown,  white  and  gray  buildings  were  covered  with  a   riot 

of   color — thousands   of  flags   of  the   Allied   Nations,   as   far  down   the 

"lordly  street"  as  eye  could  see. 

What  was  Pentecost?     What  was  "that  world's  Declaration?"     What 

is  the  device  on  the  Polish  flag?     What  does  "burgeons"  mean? 
Why   does   the   poet   take   the    scene    at    night,    rather   than    in   the 

daytime?     Could  you  put  the  main  thought   of  the  poem  into  a  few 

words?     Does  it  make  you  any  prouder  of  your  country?     Is  it  what 

you  would  have  expected  from  an  Englishman? 

PRAYER  OF  A  SOLDIER  IN  FRANCE 

Page    no. —  (From   Poems,   Essays,   and   Letters) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Trees.") 

Joyce  Kilmer  was  a  devoted  Catholic,  with  a  strong  vein  of  religious 
mysticism  in  his  temperament.  What  is  the  reverent  and  beautiful 
thought  which  comes  to  him  in  the  midst  of  his  trials?  Do  you  think 
it  would  have  occurred  to  the  average  soldier? 

In  the  line  "Men  shout  at  me  who  may  not  speak,"  what  is  the 
antecedent  of  "who?" 

THE  SMALL  TOWN  CELEBRATES 

Page    in. —  (From   Boston   Transcript) 
(For  biographical  note,   refer  to  "Good  Company.") 
What  were  you  doing  on  the  dawn  of  November   11,   1918?     What 
are   some   especially   good   bits   of   description?      How   is    Old   Boozer's 
"preaching"    typical    of    a    negro?      Why    introduce,  the    boy?      The 
puppy? 

CONTINUITY 

Page    114. —  (From   Collected  Poems) 

George  W.  Russell,  who  writes  under  the  pseudonym  "A.E."  is  a 
middle-aged  Irish  poet  and  painter  who  is  known  and  loved  through- 


236  NOTES 

out  all  Ireland.  His  personality  is  calm,  sincere,  straightforward  and 
strong,  and  he  has  abiding  faith  in  the  permanence  of  Good.  His 
house  in  Dublin  is  a  center  for  gracious  hospitality  and  the  stimulating 
of  interest  in  social,  artistic,  and  intellectual  problems. 

This  poem  was  written  in  war-time.     What  special  significance  does 
it  gain  from  that  fact? 


BABY  PANTOMIME 

Page    117. —  (From    The    Sistine   Eve) 

Percy  MacKaye  was  born  in  1875.  He  was  educated  at  Harvard 
and  Leipzig.  He  is  a  dramatic  rather  than  a  lyric  poet,  having  written 
many  plays  and  masques  in  verse.  (You  would  be  interested  in  The 
Canterbury  Pilgrims  if  you  have  read  Chaucer. )  He  has  lectured  widely 
on  the  theater,  and  organized  many  community  playhouses. 

Do  you  know  a  long  and  difficult,  but  very  beautiful  poem  by 
Wordsworth— one  with  an  appalling  title — of  which  this  sounds  like 
a  humorous  echo?  Which  of  the  gestures  mentioned  have  you  seen 
a  baby  make  most  frequently? 


A  MAN-CHILD'S  LULLABY 

Page    117. —  (From  Poems) 

Brian  Hooker  was  born  in  1880,  graduated  from  Yale,  and  has  been 
instructor  in  English  at  Yale  and  at  Columbia.  He  has  written 
the  libretto  for  several  successful  American  operas,  Horatio  Parker 
writing  the  music.  He  is  a  literary  editor  on  the  New  York  Sun, 
and  lately  has  become  interested  in  the  writing  of  "movies."  He  wrote 
the  lyrics  for  "Marjolaine,"  one  of  the  daintiest  of  recent  Broadway 
successes. 

How  does  this  differ  from  the  preceding  poem? 

Do  you  remember  the  refrain  of  an  old  Elizabethan  lullaby — 
"Sephestia's  Song  to  Her  Child" — which  has  this  idea? 


JUSTICE 

Page  118. —  (From  Candles  That  Burn) 

Aline  Kilmer  was  born  in  Norfolk,  Virginia,  in  1888,  and  educated  at 
a  private  school  in  New  Jersey.  She  married  Joyce  Kilmer  (q.v. ) 
in  1908.  Since  his  death,  she  had  published  several  volumes  of 
verse,  and  she  contributes  to  various  magazines. 

The  Kilmers  had  four  children.  How  old  do  you  think  Michael  and 
his  sister  were  when  this  happened?  What  primal  instincts  has  the 


NOTES  237 

little  girl   developed?      Does   Michael   realize   his   mother's   decision   ia 
just  ? 

SMELLS   (JUNIOK) 

Page  119. —  (From  The  Rocking-Horse) 

Christopher  Morley  was  born  in  Pennsylvania  in  1890.  He  graduated 
from  Haverford,  and  from  1910-1913  was  a  Rhodes  Scholar  at  Oxford. 
He  has  held  editorial  positions  with  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company,  The 
Ladies'  Home  Journal,  and  the  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger.  He  is 
now  a  literary  editor  of  the  JVetc  York  Evening  Post,  conducting  an 
enjoyable  "column."  He  writes  fiction  and  essays,  as  well  as  verse. 

Can  you  remember  any  scents  which  especially  struck  your  fancy 
when  you  were  a  child? 


THE  RAG  DOLLY'S  VALENTINE 

Page    119. —  (From   The  Laughing   Muse) 

Arthur  Guiterman  was  born  in  1871,  and  graduated  from  the  Col- 
lege of  the  City  of  New  York  in  1891.  He  has  been  a  journalist 
and  an  editorial  writer.  Since  1911  he  has  contributed  a  great 
deal  of  humorous  verse  to  Life  and  collected  the  best  of  it  in  several 
delightful  volumes.  He  has  conducted  classes  in  newspaper  and  maga- 
zine verse  in  New  York  University. 

Why  are  children's  favorite  toys  usually  their  most  disreputable 
ones?  What  were  you  fond  of  taking  to  bed  with  you? 


THE  ANXIOUS  FARMER 

Page   120. —  (From  Youngsters) 

Surges  Johnson  was  born  in  1877,  in  Vermont,  and  graduated  from 
Amherst  in  1899.  He  has  been  a  reporter,  and  held  various  editorial 
positions  on  different  magazines.  Since  1915  he  has  been  associate 
professor  of  English  at  Vassar.  He  has  written  many  books  of 
humorous  verse. 

Don't  you  feel  like  illustrating  this  poem?  Is  the  title  well  chosen? 
Is  there  any  hope  for  the  garden? 


THE  DEW-LIGHT 

Page  121. —  (From  Poems  of  a  Little  Girl) 

Little  Hilda  Conkling,  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Grace  Hazard  Covikling 
(n.v. )    has  been  composing  verse  since  she  was  four  years  old.      (She 


238  NOTES 

was  born  in  1910.)  Her  mother  writes  down  these  "songs"  as  Hilda 
gives  them  to  her,  carefully  indicating  by  divisions  and  punctuation 
the  original  cadences  of  the  child's  voice.  Hilda  is  an  absolutely  normal, 
happy,  healthy  little  girl,  in  spite  of  her  exceptional  gift. 

As  far  as  technique  goes,  this  might  well  have  been  written  by  an 
older  person.  What  shows  you  clearly,  however,  that  it  is  the  work 
of  a  child? 

THE  SHADOW  PEOPLE 

Page   122. —  (From   Complete  Poems) 

Francis  Ledwidge,  the  most  promising  of  the  young  Irish  poets, 
was  only  twenty-six  when  he  was  killed  in  action,  July,  1917.  He 
was  a  peasant  boy  with  little  education  who  had  been  a  farmhand  and 
laborer.  But  he  had  been  writing  creditable  poetry  since  he  was 
sixteen.  We  owe  much  to  Lord  Dunsany  for  "discovering"  and  encour- 
aging him,  and  for  making  a  collection  of  his  verse,  after  his  tragic 
death. 

The  poem  was  written  while  Ledwidge  was  in  hospital  in  Egypt. 
Might  the  child  be  his  remembered  self?  Why,  anyway,  is  the  child 
distinctly  Irish?  What  two  lines  do  you  like  best? 


INCORRIGIBLE 

Page   123. —  (From  Youngsters) 

(For  biographical  note,   refer  to  "The   Anxious   Farmer.") 

Is  it  the  boy's  apple-tree  exploit  that  makes  him  "incorrigible"? 


DA  YOUNGA   'MERICAN 

Page   124. —  ( From   Canzoni ) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Een  Napoli.") 

Why  is  the  father  proud  of  his  boy?  Is  the  boy  altogether  worth 
being  proud  of? 

LITTLE  PAN 

Page    125. —  (From    Grenstone    Poems). 

Witter  Bynner  was  born  in  1881,  and  graduated  from  Harvard  in 
1902.  He  has  been  an  assistant  editor  and  literary  editor  on  various 
magazines,  and  a  lecturer,  as  well  as  the  writer  of  several  volumes  of 
verse.  Recently  be  has  been  an  instructor  at  the  University  of  Cali- 
fornia. 


NOTES  239 

Do  you  like  the  title  of  the  poem?    What  line  is  most  important? 
One   of   my   girls   said   that   the   youngster   reminded   her   of    Huck 
Finn  or  Tom  Sawyer.     Do  you  see  why? 


RIJFUS  PRAYS 

Page  126. —  (From  Oxford  Poetry,  1916) 

Leonard  A.  G.  Strong  was  born  in  Devonshire  in  1896,  and  educated  at 
private  schools  and  Wadham  College,  Oxford.  Kept  out  of  the  army 
by  ill  health,  he  taught  for  two  years  at  Summer  Fields,  Oxford,  to 
which  he  has  now  returned.  In  1919  he  published  Dallington  Rhymes, 
and  Dublin  Days  in  1921. 

A  boy  said  that  this  reminded  him  of  the  parable  about  the  Pharisee 
and  the  publican. 

Rufus  has  the  repulsive  outward  marks  of  idiocy — why,  then  does  he 
not  repel  us?  What  very  beautiful  conception  of  the  future  life  does 
he  phrase  in  his  idiot  way? 


AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  ROADS 

Page  127. —  (From  Wild  Earth  and  Other  Poems) 

Padraic  Colum  was  born  in  Ireland,  1881.  Before  coming  to  the 
United  States  to  live  (in  1914)  he  was  an  editor  of  the  Irish  Review 
(Dublin)  and  a  founder  of  the  Abbey  Theater  (Irish  National  Theater). 
He  lectures  on  poetry  and  Irish  literature.  He  has  written  plays  and 
sketches  as  well  as  poems. 

In  Ireland,  the  female  tramp,  be  she  beggar,  peddler,  or  mere  wan- 
derer, is  a  familiar  figure.  Synge  has  drawn  a  charmingly  humorous 
picture  of  such  an  old  woman  and  her  husband  in  his  comedy  The 
Well  of  the  Saints. 

Might  this  longing  find  an  echo  in  the  hearts  of  any  class  in  America? 

Why  wouldn't  the  old  woman  crave  company  in  her  little  house? 


THE  ANCIENT  BEAUTIFUL  THINGS 

Page  128. —  (From  Atlantic  Monthly) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Wild  Weather.") 

What  are  "the  ancient  beautiful  things"  meant  here?  How  do  they 
differ  from  the  delights  of  a  home  as  pictured  by  "the  old  woman  of  the 
roads''?  Do  you  recall  a  scene  in  a  play  by  Maeterlinck  which  is  sug- 
gested by  the  lines  beginning,  "How  should  we  have  chosen  her?"  What 
famous  Bible  text  sounds  like  an  answer  to  the  last  question? 


240  NOTES 


YOU,  FOUR  WALLS,  WALL  NOT  IN  MY  HEART ! 

Page  132. —  ( From  The  Singing  Man ) 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody  (Mrs.  Marks)  was  born  in  New  York,  and 
took  her  B.A.  at  Radcliffe  in  1894.  For  a  time  she  was  in  the  English 
Department  at  Wellesley.  She  married  in  1906.  In  1910  her  play  The 
Piper  was  awarded  the  Stratford-on-Avon  prize.  She  had  published 
several  volumes  of  verse. 

Which  poem  do  you  think  has  a  bigger  thought,  this  or  the 
preceding  ? 

MY  DOG 

Page  133. —  (From  Foothills  of  Parnassus) 

John  Rendrick  Bangs  was  a  lecturer  and  humorist  as  well  as  a 
writer.  Also,  lie  has  been  an  editor  on  various  periodicals.  He  was 
born  in  1862,  and  was  a  Columbia  graduate.  He  died  in  1922,  a  man 
much  loved  and  mourned.  Two  well-known  books  of  his  are  A  House- 
boat on  the  Styx,  and  Ghosts  I  Have  Met. 

Why  has  this  little  poem  given  delight  to  readers  of  all  ages? 


IN  SERVICE 

Page  134. —  (From  Songs  of  Leinster) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Spires  of  Oxford." ) 

Which  picture  do  you  prefer  here — that  of  the  wistful-eyed  little 
serving-maid  in  her  unprecedented  finery  (even  boots!),  or  that  of  the 
fishing-village  which  is  her  home? 

Wordsworth  once  wrote  a  poem  about  a  homesick  country  girl  in  town 
• — do  you  know  it? 


MY  SWEET  BROWN  GAL 

Page  135. —  (From  Lyrics  of  Love  and  Laughter) 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  was  born  in  Dayton,  Ohio,  and  educated  in 
the  public  schools  there.  For  a  time  he  was  a  journalist  in  New  York, 
and  then  was  on  the  staff  of  the  Congressional  Library.  He  published 
many  small  volumes  of  verse,  beginning  when  he  was  twenty-one.  His 
readings  of  his  own  poems  delighted  large  audiences.  His  untimely 
death  in  1906 — he  was  only  thirty-two — meant  a  great  loss  to  American 
poetry. 

Mr.  Dunbar  was  the  first  American  negro  to  stimulate  interest  in  his 


NOTES  241 

race  through  poetry  characteristic  of  them,  and  written  in  their  dialect. 
Ever  since  his  death,  his  influence  has  persistently  showed  itself  in  the 
ever-increasing  attention  given  to  negro  "spirituals"  and  songs. 

Warmth,   peace,  music   from   a  beloved   instrument — could   the   most 
palatial  home  offer  much  better  things  on  a  stormy  night? 


THE  SUNKEN  GARDEN 

Page  136. —  (From  Motley) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  tu  preceding  poem.) 

What  gives  this  poem  the  touch  of  mystery — "spookiness,"  as  one  of 
my  pupils  put  it?  ("The  Listeners"  is  another  famous  one  of  this 
type. )  Louis  Untermeyer  has  parodied  this  trait  deliciously  in  his 
volume  " — and  Others,"  where  Walter  de  la  Mare  is  supposed  to  tell  the 
story  of  Jack  and  Jill.  You  wrould  enjoy  reading  that — and  other  take- 
offs  in  the  book,  too. 

What  gives  you  the  impression  that  the  garden  is  an  old  one? 


THE  GARDEN  BY  MOONLIGHT 

Page  137. —  (From  Pictures  of  the  Floating  World) 
(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Bombardment.") 
One  of  Miss  Lowell's  passions  is  gardens.    She  has  written  many  othe/ 
poems  about  them;   you  will  find  three  in  this  same  volume.     A  par- 
ticularly gorgeous  one  describes  a  garden  in  bright  sunshine.     Which 
subject  should  you  think  offered  more  possibilities  for  effective  treat- 
ment? 

From  the  artistic  standpoint,  what  is  gained  by  the  introduction  of 
the  black  cat? 

Compare  and  contrast  this  poem  with  the  preceding  one  by  Mr.  de  la 
Mare. 

TO  MY  BROTHER 

Page  141. —  (From  Service  and  Sacrifice) 

Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson  was  the  "Conie"  of  Theodore  Roosevelt's 
boyhood  diary — his  younger  sister,  to  whom  he  was  always  devoted.  In 
her  early  twenties  she  married  Douglas  Robinson,  the  capitalist.  Her 
two  hobbies  have  been  poetry — of  which  she  has  published  several 
volumes — and  politics,  a  game  in  which  she  has  proved  herself  a  forceful 
and  vivacious  speaker. 

On  the  death  of  our  great  ex-President,  many  poetic  tributes  were 
paid  to  him  as  an  official,  a  statesman,  and  a  leader.  (The  two  best 
known,  perhaps,  are  by  Kipling  and  Masters — "Greatheart"  and  "At 


242  NOTES 

Sagamore  Hill.")     This  tribute  by  his  sister  shows  a  side  of  greatness 
which  popular  estimation  is  apt  to  overlook. 

The   rhyme-scheme  here  is  the  one   immortalized  by  Tennyson   in  a 
poem  about  a  dear  friend  of  his  who  had  died.     Do  you  know  it? 


A  MILE  WITH  ME 

Page  142. —  ( From  the  Poems  of  Henry  van  Dyke ) 

Henry  van  Dyke  was  born  in  Pennsylvania,  1852.  He  took  his  B.A.  at 
Princeton  in  1873,  and  studied  further  at  several  other  universities, 
from  which  he  holds  other  degrees.  He  was  ordained  a  Presbyterian 
minister  in  1877.  Later  he  was  professor  of  English  at  Princeton. 
From  1913-16  he  was  American  minister  to  the  Netherlands  and 
Luxembourg.  Besides  poetry,  he  has  written  many  essays. 

Why  would  this  poem  be  a  good  one  to  copy  in  an  autograph  album? 


MY  FRIEND 

Page  143. —  (From  Echoes  and  Realities) 

Walter  Prichard  Eaton  was  born  in  Massachusetts,  1878.  He  took 
his  A.  B.  at  Harvard  in  1900.  He  has  been  dramatic  correspondent  and 
critic  on  various  newspapers,  and  lately  for  the  American  Magazine. 
He  has  written  fiction  and  sketches,  especially  for  boys. 

A  certain  fine  reserve  between  even  the  best  of  friends  is  very  char- 
acteristic of  New  Englanders.  Do  you  like  it,  or  do  you  prefer  to  share 
all  your  friends'  secrets?  What  did  Emerson  say  on  this  subject? 
Bacon?  What  two  splendid  traits  does  "my  friend"  possess?  Do  you 
think  the  comparison  employed  throughout  is  an  apt  one? 


PEOPLE 

Page  143. —  (From  Spring  Morning) 

Frances  D.  Cornford  is  the  granddaughter  of  Charles  Darwin,  She 
Was  born  in  1886.  She  married  in  1909,  her  husband  (Francis  Mac- 
donald  Cornford)  being  a  Fellow  of  and  Lecturer  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge.  She  has  published  a  morality  play,  Death  and  the  Princess, 
and  two  volumes  of  poems. 

Dickens  emphasizes  this  same  idea  in  the  opening  paragraph  of 
Chapter  III,  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  Do  you  remember  it  ?  The  last  lines 
of  the  preceding  poem,  also,  have  this  thought — with  what  difference? 
Mrs.  Cornford  originally  called  this  poem  "Social  Intercourse."  Does 
that  suggest  another  difference? 


NOTES  243 


SONG 

Page  144. —  (From  Collected  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Soldier.") 

Rupert  Brooke  was  simple,  normal,  healthy,  balanced,  to  a  fine  degree. 
Such  people  rarely  need  to  fear  their  emotions,  for  they  find  them 
spontaneous,  deep,  and  oddly  familiar.  What  two  false  emotions  which 
mark  the  unbalanced  type  of  person  are  suggested  in  the  first  two 
stanzas?  Can  you  think  of  others? 


THE  LOOK 

Page  145. —  (From  Love  Songs) 

Sara  Teasdale  (Mrs.  Filsinger)  was  born  in  St.  Louis,  1884,  and 
educated  at  private  schools.  She  has  traveled  much  abroad.  She  was 
married  in  1914,  and  now  lives  in  New  York  City.  Love  Songs,  pub- 
lished in  1917,  was  awarded  the  Columbia  prize  of  $500  for  that  year. 
She  has  brought  out  other  volumes  of  verse,  and  an  anthology  of  love- 
poems  by  women. 

What  trait  of  human  nature  makes  this  little  poem  ring  true?  Would 
it  be  good  set  to  music? 


TO  A  DISTANT  ONE 

Page  146. —  (From  Collected  Poems) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Shadow  People.") 

This  poem  was  written  while  Francis  Ledwidge  was  in  barracks, 
shortly  before  his  death.  Its  prophecy,  therefore,  was  never  fulfilled  on 
earth.  But  I  can  never  read  it  without  thinking  of  the  young  hero  of 
a  war-play  Across  the  Border,  by  Beulah  Marie  Dix.  All  his  life  he  has 
been  looking  for  the  girl  who  shall  be  "fragrance,  light  and  life"  to 
him,  without  finding  her.  She  is  found  at  last,  in  the  world  beyond 
ours. 

Ought  a  man  to  wait  until  he  has  something — and  that  doesn't  mean 
merely  money — to  offer  a  girl?  Why  does  the  poet  say,  "Till  Fame 
and  other  little  things  were  won"? 


MARY,  HELPER  OF  HEARTBREAK 

Page  147. —  (From  The  Old  Road  to  Paradise) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Factories.") 

A  sixteenth  century  sonnet  by  Micliael  Drayton,  "Since  there's  no 


244  NOTES 

help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part"  has  this  same  idea — that  the  best  of 
reasoning  is  often  but  a  crumbling  wall  against  the  sweeping  tide  of 
emotion,  the  most  carefully  marshaled  arguments  a  vain  defense  against 
"the  defeat  we  love  better  than  victory."  It  is  stated  in  the  same  way, 
too,  with  the  unexpected  twist  at  the  end.  Read  the  sonnet  and  see 
which  of  the  two  poems  you  consider  more  forceful. 


GARDEN  OF  THE  ROSE 

Page  148. —  (From  Star-Glow  and  Song) 

Charles  Buxton  Going  was  born  in  Westchester  County,  1863.  He  is 
a  Columbia  graduate,  and  his  vocation  is  engineering.  During  the  war 
he  was  a  major  in  the  Ordnance  Department.  He  has  published  two 
volumes  about  engineering,  and  three  of  poems. 

A  famous  Elizabethan  love-song  "Cherry-Ripe"  compares  a  girl's 
face  to  a  garden  of  flowers;  but  this  comparison  is  rather  new.  Do  you 
think  it  is  effective? 

Mediaeval  romances  are  full  of  brave  knights,  each  of  whom  wor 
shiped  one  maiden 

"by  years   of   noble   deeds 
Until  they  won  her." 

Their  fair  but  over-capricious  lady-loves  often  kept  them  waiting  fot 
a  length  of  time  which  must  have  sorely  tried  the  lovers'  patience.  Yet 
even  in  this  day  of  rapid-fire  action,  the  wise  lover  will  wait  patiently. 
For  if  reverent  respect  for  another's  personality  is  a  fine  quality  of 
friendship,  it  is  indispensable  in  the  most  perfect  but  most  difficult 
relationship  of  all. 


THE  LITTLE  GOLDEN  FOUNTAIN 

Page  149. —  (From  The  Little  Golden  Fountain) 

Mary  MacMillan  was  born  in  Ohio,  and  educated  there  and  at  Bryn 
Mawr  College.  She  is  a  writer  of  plays  (Short  Plays  and  More  Short 
Plays)  articles,  stories,  and  verse.  She  has  a  second  volume  of  the 
latter  in  preparation. 

Here  is  another  "conceit,"'  as  old  John  Donne  would  have  called  it, 
still  more  elaborately  carried  out.  Does  its  elaborateness  detract  from 
or  add  to  the  thought  so  old  and  yet  forever  new — "Mon  coeur  est  plein 
de  toi"?  (Do  you  know  Tosti's  setting  of  that  song?) 


NOTES  245 


SONGS  OF  A  GIRL 

Page  149. —  (From  Youth  Riding) 

Mary  Carolyn  Davies  was  married  in  1919,  but  still  writes  under  her 
maiden  name.  She  is  by  birth  a  Far- Westerner;  she  studied  at  the 
University  of  California,  1911-12,  and  later  at  New  York  University. 
She  was  among  the  founders  of  Others,  a  group  of  free  verse  writers. 
She  has  published  several  volumes  of  poems  and  plays. 

What  feeling  is  here  shown  to  be  the  foundation  of  true  love? 


PSALM  TO  MY  BELOVED 

Page  150. —  ( From  Body  and  Raiment ) 

Eunice  Tietjens  (Mrs.  Head)  was  born  in  1884,  in  Chicago.  She 
studied  much  abroad,  and  after  her  first  marriage  completed  a  tour  of 
the  world.  She  was  formerly  an  associate  editor  of  Poetry.  Her  first 
book  was  Profiles  from  China. 

Every  one  acknowledges  that  the  Psalms,  though  written  as  prose, 
are  poetry  in  a  very  true  sense  of  the  word.  This  little  poem  is 
deliberately  modeled  on  their  long,  flowing  cadences,  and  their  trick  of 
repetition.  It  is  particularly  a  poem  that  needs  reading  aloud. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  German  love-songs,  "Widmung,"  by 
Riickert,  (the  famous  setting  is  by  Schumann)  has  somewhat  this  idea, 
especially  in  the  line,  "Du  bist  die  Rub.  du  bist  der  Frieden." 


Page  151. —  (Fiom  The  Rocking  Horse) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Smells — Junior.") 

Is  the  woman  mother,  sister,  or  wife?  What  is  the  secret  of  her  per- 
sonal influence  over  the  man?  Is  she  conscious  of  it?  Is  he?  When 
you  finally  meet  people  of  whom  you  have  heard  a  great  deal,  do  you 
find  the  reality  the  same  as  "the  reflection"  ? 


A  LYNMOUTH  WIDOW 

Page  152. —  (From  In  Deep  Places) 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr  was  born  in  New  York  City,  1878,  and  is  a 
graduate  of  Hunter  College.  During  the  war  she  did  interesting  volun- 
teer work  of  various  kinds.  Recently  she  has  made  a  trip  around  the 
world  She  has  published  fiction,  plays,  and  verse. 


246  NOTES 

Why  is  this  short  poem  so  powerful?  What  good  bit  of  psychology 
does  it  contain? 

PARTING 

Page  152. —  (From  Poetry) 

Alice  Corhin  was  born  in  St.  Louis.  In  1905  she  married  William 
Penhallow  Henderson,  the  artist.  Since  1912  she  has  been  an  associate 
editor  of  Poetry,  and  although  severely  handicapped  by  ill-health,  has 
done  much  for  the  magazine,  especially  by  her  researches  among  old  folk- 
songs. With  Miss  Monroe,  she  compiled  The  New  Poetry  (1917).  She 
has  published  verse  and  plays. 

This  is  an  "interpretation,"  rather  than  an  exact  translation,  of  an 
old  Indian  poem.  A  splendid  anthology,  Cronyn's  Path  on  the  Rainbow, 
containing  many  other  poems  of  this  same  sort,  indicates  the  awakening 
interest  of  modern  Americans  in  the  oldest  American  literature.  Inci- 
dentally, we  don't  feel  so  modern  when  we  discover  that  all  these  poems 
were  in  free  verse. 

What  famous  poem  did  Burns  write  about  a  dear  old  couple  who  had 
almost  reached  the  end  of  a  happy  life  together? 


THE  PENALTY  OF  LOVE 

Page  153. —  (From  Poems  of  the  Unknown  Way) 

Sidney  Royse  Lysaght  is  a  scholarly,  wealthy,  widely-traveled  Irish 
author,  now  middle-aged.  He  has  published  volumes  of  verse  and  novels. 

How  does  this  differ  from  the  other  love-poems  you  have  just  read? 
What  is  "the  penalty"  of  love,  even  when  one's  love  is  returned?  Did 
Elaine  think  that  the  joy  of  her  own  love  was  worth  this  penalty,  when 
her  love  was  not  requited?  Did  Sydney  Carton?  Why  is  any  one 
"poor"  if  he  turns  love  from  his  door? 


BARTER 

Page  157. —  (From  Love  Songs) 
(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Look.") 

Seventy-odd  years  ago,  with  the   spirit  of  the  Puritans  still  strong 
upon  him,  James  Russell  Lowell  wrote : 

"Earth  gets   its  price  for  what   earth  gives  us; 

At  the  Devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold, 

Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold; 

For  a  cap  and  bell  our  lives  we  pay. 

Bubbles   we   buy   with    a   whole    soul's   tasking." 


NOTES  24? 

Is  the  view  of  this  poem  Pagan,  in  contrast?  Or  are  the  things  to  be 
bartered  of  a  slightly  different  sort?  What  are  some  other  bits  of 
loveliness  that  Life  has  sold  to  you? 


TIME,  YOU  OLD  GIPSY  MAN 

Page  157. —  (From  Poems) 

Ralph  Hodgson  has  always  shunned  publicity  of  any  kind.  Therefore, 
little  is  known  of  him,  except  that  he  is  about  forty,  lives  a  quiet  life 
in  the  country,  and  is  very  fond  of  animals.  He  has  published  only  two 
volumes  of  poems  (in  1907  and  1917)  and  those  very  small  ones,  but 
the  quality  of  his  verse  is  the  opposite  of  the  quantity. 

Humor  and  solemnity  are  not  usually  supposed  to  exist  at  the  same 
time.  How  does  the  poet  introduce  the  former  without  detracting  from 
the  latter? 

SONNET 

Page  159. —  (From  Poems,  First  Series) 

John  Collings  Squire  was  born  in  1894;  educated  at  Blundell's  and 
Cambridge.  He  has  published  clever  parodies  and  a  good  deal  of 
original  verse,  and  has  been  interested  in  the  editing  of  literary  maga- 
zines. His  latest  venture  is  The  London  Mercury,  a  delightful  monthly 
covering  poetry,  novels,  essays,  etc. 

Do  you  think  this  sonnet  is  more  effective  than  it  would  be  if  it  were 
written  from  the  point  of  view  of  Columbus  and  his  sailors?  (By  the 
way,  do  you  know  a  famous  poem  about  Columbus  ? )  What  were 
"caravels"?  Why  are  they  called  "doom-burdened"? 


PROVINCETOWN 

Page  159. —  (From  The  Independent) 

Marie  Louise  Hersey  (Mrs.  Forbes)  was  born  in  Hartford,  Con- 
necticut, in  1894;  educated  in  schools  there  and  in  Denver,  Colorado; 
graduated  from  Radcliffe  College  in  1916,  married  in  1918.  She  has  not 
yet  published  a  volume  of  verse,  but  her  work  has  appeared  in  magazines 
and  anthologies. 

This,  as  you  may  guess,  is  a  "tercentenary"  poem.  In  few  towns  along 
the  New  England  coast  is  the  contrast  between  the  old  America  and 
the  new  more  sharply  impressed  on  one  than  in  Provincetown. 

What  are  some  particularly  beautiful  bits  of  description  in  the  poem? 


248  NOTES 


AMERICA 

Page  161. —  (From  Mushrooms) 

Alfred  Kreymborg  was  born  in  1883,  in  New  York  City,  where  he  still 
lives.  He  has  published  several  books  of  original  verse,  been  the  founder 
and  editor  of  anthologies  of  Imagist  verse,  and  been  the  first  to  intro- 
duce free  verse  into  drama,  in  his  Plays  for  Poem  Mimes. 

Because  of  Mr.  Kreymborg's  whimsical  fancies  and  fearless  humor, 
critics  have  accused  him  of  flippancy.  His  friends  know  him  to  be  a 
tireless,  quiet,  earnest  toiler  with  a  deep  vein  of  seriousness.  Do  you 
see  both  sides  of  him  in  this  poem,  or  does  one  predominate? 

Why  is  the  "boy"  calling  "All,  One"? 


RECESSIONAL 

Page  161. —  (From  Rudyard  Kipling's  Poems;  Inclusive  Edition) 
Queen  Victoria's  Diamond  Jubilee,  1897,  was  the  occasion  of  such 
rejoicing  and  splendor  as  England  had  seldom  known.  Poets  outdid 
themselves  in  florid  tributes  to  the  greatness  of  their  Queen  and  their 
country.  You  can  judge  what  an  effect  this  poem  produced,  under  the 
circumstances.  Why  did  the  poet  choose  this  title?  Why  has  the  poem 
been  so  often  quoted  within  the  last  few  years?  Is  it  at  all  applicable 
to  America? 

The  best-known  musical  setting  of  this  poem  is  by  Reginald  de  Koven. 


IF 

Page  163. —  (From  Rudyard  Kipling's  Poems;  Inclusive  Edition) 
(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Feet  of  the  Young  Men.") 
Emerson  once  called  parody  a  "saucy  homage."     This  poem  has  had 
that  sort  of  homage  paid  to  it  time  and  time  again.     Why  is  it  worth 
serious  admiration,  as  well?     Which  "if"  would  be  the  hardest  one  for 
you? 

COURAGE 

Page  164. —  (From  Moods,  Songs,  and  Doggerel) 

John  Galsworthy  was  born  in  1867.  He  began  writing  young,  and 
has  had  a  most  successful  career  as  essayist,  novelist,  and  dramatist; 
he  has  also  published  one  volume  of  poems.  During  part  of  the  war, 
he  gave  his  services  at  an  English  hospital  for  French  soldiers.  He  haa 


NOTES  249 

made   several   lecture-tours   of   the   United   States,   and   done   much  to 
strengthen  the  friendly  relations  between  Britons  and  Americans. 

Courage — not  only  the  kind  that  rises  to  emergencies,  but  the  kind 
that  holds  on  with  a  bulldog  grip  through  a  long,  weary  ordeal — has 
always  been  a  superlative  virtue  of  the  English.  A  superb  anthology 
might  be  made  of  English  poems  glorifying  courage.  Can  you  think 
of  five  or  six  famous  ones  ? 


PRAYER 

Page  164. —  (From  Challenge) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Highmount." ) 

What  aspirations  mark  this  "prayer"  as  being  one  of  the  twentieth 
century?  Why  should  one  pray  to  be  kept  from  "sleek  contentment" 
and  from  "compromise"?  What  line  in  the  poem  reminds  you  of  the 
two  you  have  just  read? 


A  CREED 

Page  165. —  (From  The  Shoes  cf  Happiness) 

Edwin  Markham  was  born  in  Oregon,  1852,  and  his  boyhood  years 
were  spent  on  a  ranch,  where  he  learned  everything  from  farming  to 
blacksmithing.  He  attended  San  Jose  Normal  School  and  two  Western 
colleges,  and  was  in  succession  a  teacher,  a  school  principal,  and  a  super- 
intendent of  schools  in  California.  He  began  writing  poetry  when  young, 
and  since  1899,  has  devoted  himself  almost  entirely  to  that  and 
lecturing. 

"The  Man  with  the  Hoe,"  (a  poem  inspired  by  Millet's  famous  paint- 
ing) which  Mr.  Markham  published  in  1899,  created  a  great  sensation. 
It  emphasizes  the  age-long  oppression  of  the  poor,  the  power  dormant 
in  the  masses,  and  the  responsibility  of  the  ruling  class  toward  them — 
a  responsibility  which  they  may  realize  too  late,  in  the  hour  of  rebellion. 
We  appreciate  that  fact  quite  fully  to-day.  This  poem,  however — 
dedicated  by  a  Christian  to  a  Jew— emphasizes  another  significant  fact 
which  is  not  yet  fully  appreciated.  Do  you  think  it  will  be  within  the 
next  twenty  years?  You  notice  it's  a  rather  broader  question  than 
that  of  mere  religious  toleration. 


THE  GREAT  LOVER 

Page  166. —  (From  Collected  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Soldier.") 

Do  you  see  any  significance  in  the  fact  that  this  poem  was  written 


250  NOTES 

while  Brooke  was  visiting  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  the 
world?  Why  do  some  people  love  life  more  intensely  than  others? 
What  is  the  danger  in  the  "catalogue"  type  of  poem?  How  does 
Brooke  avert  it? 

GIFTS 

Page  168. —  (From  Factories) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Factories.") 

Do  you  think  it  is  pessimistic  to  anticipate  the  difference  between  hope 
and  achievement?  Why,  as  one  grows  older,  should  he  appreciate  the 
little  things  more  and  more?  Does  such  appreciation  make  him  give  up 
struggling  for  the  big  things?  What  did  Browning  say  about  a  man's 
reach  and  his  grasp? 


RICHARD  CORY 

Page  170. —  (From  Children  of  the  Night) 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  was  born  in  Maine,  1869.  From  1891-1893 
he  was  at  Harvard.  Children  of  the  Night  was  his  first  publication. 
From  1905-1910  he  was  in  the  New  York  Custom  House.  The  Man 
Against  the  Sky  (1916)  won  great  praise.  He  now  devotes  himself 
entirely  to  literature.  The  volume  of  his  collected  poems  won  the  first 
Pulitzer  prize  for  poetry,  in  1921. 

Do  you  see  any  connection  between  the  story  of  this  poem  and  the 
Tenth  Commandment?  How  does  Richard  Cory  dhow  himself  "a  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school"?  What  might  have  driven  him  to  suicide? 
Technically  speaking,  do  you  consider  this  a  well-written  poem? 


A  FARMER  REMEMBERS  LINCOLN 

Page  170. —  (From  Grenstone  Poems) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Little  Pan.") 

Many  fine  poems  have  been  written  by  Americans  about  this  great 
President.  Five  of  them  (four  besides  this)  will  be  found  in  Unter- 
meyer's  Modern  American  Poetry.  This  one  my  own  particular  classes 
have  usually  liked  the  best,  because  they  say  it  "sounds  the  most 
human." 

SUNSET 

Page  172. —  (From  The  Sistine  Eve) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Baby  Pantomime.") 

Is  the  double  concept  novel?     Appealing?     What  was  the  impression 


NOTES  251 

ot  life  in  general,  and  especially  of  old  age,  given  by  Jaques  in  his 
famous  speech  about  the  "seven  ages"?  Contrast  with  that  the  im- 
pression given  by  the  sestet  here. 


SILENCE 

Page  172. —  (From  Songs  and  Satires) 

Edgar  Lee  Masters  was  born  in  Kansas,  1869.  In  his  boyhood  he 
lived  on  a  farm.  His  father  was  anxious  he  should  become  a  lawyer; 
so  he  attended  Knox  College,  practised  in  an  office,  and  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  in  1891.  His  law  career  has  been  very  successful;  he  has 
also  been  interested  and  influential  in  Illinois  politics;  but  his  heart 
has  always  been  in  his  writing,  which  his  family  opposed  and  which  for 
many  years  failed  to  gain  him  recognition.  But  since  the  publication 
of  Spoon  River  Anthology,  fame,  though  tardy,  has  made  up  to  him 
for  lost  time.  He  has  published  many  volumes  since. 

Which  conception  of  silence — a  consolation,  a  refuge,  a  weapon,  a 
promise, — appeals  to  you  most? 


THE  COWBOY'S  DREAM 

Page  175. —  (From  Cowboy  Songs) 

John  A.  Lomax  is  a  professor  in  the  University  of  Texas.  He  is  a 
graduate  of  that  university  and  of  Harvard.  As  Sheldon  Fellow  for 
the  Investigation  of  American  Ballads  he  traveled  far  and  wide  to 
make  this  collection — a  task  for  which  he  was  particularly  fitted  be- 
cause his  boyhood  was  spent  on  the  old  Chisholm  Trail  in  Texas.  He 
liar  recently  published  a  second  collection  called  Songs  of  the  Cattle 
Trail  and  Cow  Camp. 

Though  interest  in  these  ballads  is  recent,  their  composition  belongs 
mainly  to  the  '60's  and  '70's,  when  the  old  fashioned  cowboy  was  a 
familiar  figure  and  a  real  force  in  Western  civilization.  They  grew  up 
in  much  the  same  manner  that  the  old  English  ballads  did;  they  often 
have  as  many  different  versions;  like  their  prototypes,  they  are  usually 
sung.  This  particular  one  has  been  selected  partly  because  it  is  set  to 
a  tune  familiar  enough  for  you  to  sing  it.  Shut  the  classroom  door  and 
try! 

The  note  of  moralizing,  and  even  of  melancholy,  is  quite  as  evident  in 
these  songs  as  the  note  of  rollicking  cheer  and  daring.  Do  you  see  why? 

The  term  "dogie"  (o  long)  meant  originally  a  motherless  calf;  it 
came  to  be  generally  applied  to  any  cattle.  "Maverick"  means  the  same. 


252  NOTES 


GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH  ENTERS  INTO 
HEAVEN 

Page  176. —  (From  General  William  Booth  Enters  Into  Heaven  and 
Other  Poems) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "An  Indian  Summer  Day  on  the 
Prairie.") 

Mr.  Lindsay  has  a  peculiar  and  effective  method  of  reciting  his 
poetry.  He  chants  it  (with  or  without  musical  accompaniment),  and 
by  his  rich  and  flexible  voice  creates  almost  orchestral  effects.  The 
English  poet  Siegfried  Sassoon,  after  hearing  him  in  America,  wrote 
an  "impression"  of  the  recital  which  begins : 

"Switch  on  the  golden  lights  and  set  him  going; 
Foam-flowers  and  dragons;  rag-time  glorious." 

The  catchy  rhythms  and  dramatic  delivery  often  result  in  just  that. 

Do  you  think  the  poem  represents  the  spirit  of  the  Salvation  Army? 
One  of  my  boys  said  he  thought  the  treatment  of  the  subject  was  over- 
theatrical  and  resulted  in  cheapness.  (Do  you  agree  with  him?)  But 
he  went  on  to  give  two  reasons  why  he  liked  the  poem.  What  do  you 
think  they  were? 


THE  DEVIL 

Page  179. —  (From  Poetical  Works) 

William  Henry  Drummond  was  a  Canadian,  born  in  1854.  He  was 
educated  at  McGill  and  Bishops  University  (Montreal).  By  vocation 
he  was  a  physician,  but  by  avocation  a  writer  of  verse  and  a  lecturer. 
He  was  widely  known  in  the  United  States  as  well  as  in  Canada.  He 
was  a  great  athlete  and  lover  of  the  outdoors ;  thus  he  knew,  first-hand, 
a  great  deal  about  rural  French-Canadian  life,  the  chief  subject  of  his 
verse.  He  died  in  1907. 

The  idea  of  a  man's  selling  his  soul  to  the  devil  in  return  for  material 
gifts  in  this  world  is  a  very  old  one.  What  is  one  of  the  famous 
versions?  How  does  this  one  differ?  How  do  you  suppose  a  story  like 
this  might  begin  and  grow,  in  a  small  settlement  of  superstitious 
people?  Would  they  take  it  seriously,  or  regard  it  as  an  entertaining 
"fish  story"? 

By  "election  man"  is  meant  the  typical  honey-tongued  politician  who 
stumps  the  more  remote  districts  to  get  votes  for  his  party. 


NOTES  253 


THE  HOST  OF  THE  AIR 

Page   185. —  (From  Poems) 

William  Butler  Yeats  was  born  in  Dublin,  1865.  He  attended  schools 
at  Hammersmith  and  Dublin,  his  early  interest  being  in  the  study  of 
art.  But  at  twenty-one,  he  decided  he  preferred  literature  as  a  career. 
He  did  memorable  work  as  a  founder  of  the  Abbey  Theater,  thus  laying 
the  foundation  for  the  re-awakening  of  Irish  national  interest  in  the 
drama,  and  has  written  several  plays  for  its  stage.  (You  would  like, 
especially,  The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire.)  He  has  also  written  many 
poems.  Last  year  he  made  a  lecture  tour  in  the  United  States. 

A  very  interesting  collection  of  Irish  folk-lore  may  be  found  in  Lady 
Gregory's  book,  Visions  and  Beliefs  of  the  West  of  Ireland.  In 
the  Preface,  she  sums  up  the  various  superstitions  concerning  the 
"Sidhe"  or  "host  of  the  air."  These  strange  beings  have  been  since  the 
foundation  of  the  world.  Not  every  one  can  see  them,  and  they  often 
change  their  own  shapes  in  any  way  they  choose.  "They  are  as  many 
as  the  blades  of  grass.  .  .  .  Fighting  is  heard  among  them,  and  music 
that  is  more  beautiful  than  any  of  this  world."  Often  they  bewitch 
strong  young  men  or  beautiful  young  women  to  come  and  live  with  them 
for  seven  years,  or  twice  seven  years,  or  perhaps  their  whole  allotted 
lifetimes,  sending  them  back  to  earth  only  to  die.  "While  these  are 
away,  a  body  in  their  likeness,  or  the  likeness  of  a  body,  is  left  lying 
in  their  place."  Not  only  mortals  but  those  who  have  recently  died, 
may  be  found  among  the  Sidhe.  "When  the  Sidhe  pass  by  in  a  blast 
of  wind  we  should  say  some  words  of  blessing,  for  there  may  be  among 
them  some  of  our  own  dead." 

THE  FIDDLER  OF  DOONEY 

Page  187. —  (From  Poems) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  preceding  poem.) 

This  has  been  set  to  very  jolly  music,  by  Sidney  Homer. 

By  the  way,  what  qualities  must  a  poem  possess,  if  it  is  to  be  given 
a  musical  setting?  What  poet,  himself  a  musician,  indicated  the  proper 
relation  of  words  to  music,  when  he  said : 

I  "Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 

Married  to  immortal  verse"? 

THE  FAUN  SEES  SNOW  FOR  THE  FIRST  TIME 

Page  188. —  (From  Images — Old  and  New) 

Richard  Aldington  was  born  in  1892,  educated  at  Dover  College  and 
London  University.  Leaving  before  completion  of  his  course,  he  did 
newspaper  work  for  awhile,  then  traveled  on  the  Continent.  In  1913 


254  NOTES 

he  became  assistant  editor  of  the  Egotist.  In  1916  he  joined  the  army, 
goon  being  promoted  to  officer's  rank  for  great  bravery.  Since  1918,  he 
has  been  on  the  staff  of  the  London  Times.  He  is  regarded  as  the  leading 
"Imagist"  poet  in  England.  In  1913  he  married  "H.  D.''  (Hilda 
Doolittle),  one  of  the  young  American  Imagists.  He  was  for  a  time 
the  London  correspondent  of  Poetry. 

Mr.  Aldington's  intense  admiration  for  the  poetry  of  ancient  Greece 
has  influenced  many  of  his  own  verses,  not  only  in  subject-matter,  but 
in  beauty  and  in  finish. 

Have  you  ever  heard  Debussy's  "L'Apres-Midi  d'une  Faune,"  with  its 
atmosphere  of  summer  warmth  and  perfume,  and  sunlight  shimmering 
through  green  leaves?  If  you  have,  you  can  imagine  all  the  better  the 
impotent  anger,  dismay,  and  misery  of  this  poor  creature  who  finds 
himself  shivering  in  the  midst  of  a  world  he  has  never  known  before. 
Yet  you  have  to  laugh  at  him.  Why! 

The  epithets  and  allusions  employed  are  most  appropriate.  Can  you 
explain  them  all? 

ETIQUETTE 

Page  189. —  (From  The  Laughing  Muse) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Rag  Dolly's  Valentine.") 
This  is  an  amusing  variation  of  a  story  told  over  five  hundred  years 
ago  by  Geoffrey  Chaucer — about  a  fox  who  got  a  rooster  into  his  power 
by  flattering  him  and  then  was  in  turn  foiled  by  the  rooster.  It's  The 
Nun's  Priest's  Tale.  Read  it,  in  the  original  if  you  can,  and  if  not  in 
The  'Modern  Reader's  Chaucer,  by  Tatlock  and  MacKaye.  The  animal 
story  is  more  in  vogue  now  than  it  has  been  since  the  Middle  Ages— 
the  difference  being,  however,  that  they  endowed  their  animal-heroes 
with  human  attributes,  and  we  do  not,  usually. 


THE  POTATOES'  DANCE 

Page  190. —  (From  The  Chinese  Nightingale) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "An  Indian  Summer  Day  on  the 
Prairie.") 

This  is  a  "poem  game,"  a  form  with  which  Mr.  Lindsay  has  experi- 
mented a  good  deal.  The  volume  from  which  this  is  taken  contains  an 
interesting  preface  to  the  "poem  games,"  the  substance  of  it  being  as 
follows:  The  poem  is  chanted,  and  with  the  chanting  of  each  line  a 
dancer  illustrates  the  action  or  idea  of  the  line  by  steps  or  by  ex- 
pressive pantomime.  (As  you  will  guess  at  once,  the  repetition  of  the 
lines  is  necessary  to  give  time  for  the  dancer's  illustrative  motions.) 
"But  neither  the  dancing  nor  the  chanting  nor  any  other  thing  should 
toe  allowed  to  run  away  with  the  original  intention  of  the  words." 


NOTES  255 

(This  particular  poem  was  once  chanted  for  the  Florence  Fleming  Noyes 
school  of  dancers,  who  made  it  into  "a  veritable  whirlwind.")  The 
audience,  also,  may  take  its  part  in  playing  certain  games  where  re- 
sponses are  necessary.  (See  "King  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba.") 
The  whole  point  is  to  sweep  the  audience  into  the  poet's  own  mood, 
and  to  make  them  realize  the  tremendous  suggestiveness  of  the  rhythms 
of  English  speech. 

If  any  of  you  are  interested  in  interpretative  dancing,  why  not  try 
this  yourselves? 


DAGONET,  ARTHUR'S  FOOL 

Page  192. —  (From  Aldebaran] 

Muriel  St.  Clare  Byrne  was  born  in  1895.  She  was  educated,  at  The 
Belvedere  School  (Liverpool),  and  Somerville  College,  Oxford,  of  which 
University  she  is  an  M.A.  She  has  taught  school,  been  to  France  as  a 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  staff-lecturer  in  English  in  the  Army  Schools,  and  is  now 
an  assistant-tutor  in  Oxford. 

In  which  one  of  Tennyson's  Idylls  does  one  hear  most  of  Dagonet? 

Show  that  this  little  noem  stops  at  just  the  right  minute. 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN 

Page  194. —  (From  Collected  Poems) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Barrel-Organ.") 

For  several  hundred  years  after  the  Crusades,  Europeans  were  ex- 
tremely curious — and  densely  ignorant — about  the  strange,  dim  "rich 
East."  In  1420,  or  so,  everybody  was  talking  about  a  book  called 
Voiage  and  Travaile  of  Sir  John  Handeville,  supposedly  by  a  returned 
traveler  who  had  seen  all  the  wonders  of  Asia.  It  told  of  one-eyed 
giants,  dwarfs  with  no  tongues,  wild  geese  with  two  heads  apiece,  kings 
whose  thrones,  tables  and  chairs  were  of  gold  and  jewels,  a  huge  lake 
made  of  the  tears  which  Adam  and  Eve  had  wept  when  they  were 
driven  out  of  Paradise,  etc.  A  long  time  afterward,  it  was  discovered 
that  "Sir  John"  never  existed,  and  his  literary  creator  had  never  been 
to  Asia,  but  had  merely  drawn  on  old  books  of  travel  and  a  very  fertile 
imagination.  But  the  book  is  still  vastly  entertaining  reading  for  a 
stormy  afternoon.  Chapter  27  is  the  one  in  which  Prester  John  is 
mentioned.  He  was  a  supposed  Christian  king  and  priest,  reputed  to 
rule  over  a  huge  and  marvelously  wealthy  territory  in  Asia. 

Do  you  remember  who  Polyphemus  was?  What  is  the  force  of  the 
comparison  in  stanzas  1  and  2?  What  do  you  consider  the  most 
ludicrous  part  of  the  sailors'  experience?  What  was  the  Phoenix? 
Why  represent  the  men,  finally,  as  not  sure  what  had  happened? 


256  NOTES 


WHEN  SHAKESPEARE  LAUGHED 

Page  199. —  (From  The  Rocking-Horse) 
(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Smells — Junior.'') 
In  what   plays  by   Shakespeare  do   we   laugh   with — or   at — Falstaff, 
Puck  and  Caliban?     What  other  plays  have  you  read  which  show  what 
a  keen  sense  of  humor  the  great  dramatist  must  have  possessed?     What 
are  the  little  touches  here  which  make  the  whole  picture  lifelike?     (Ben 
Jonson  was  very  fat.)      Alfred  Noyes'   Tales  of  the  Mermaid   Tavern 
give  elaborately  and  quite  wonderfully  the  "local  color"  which  is  just 
suggested  here. 

Perhaps  you  have  noticed  that  the  verse-form  is  exactly  that  of  "In 
Flanders  Fields."    Why  is  the  effect  here  utterly  different? 


SUGGESTED  BY  THE  COVER  OF  A  VOLUME  OF 
KEAT'S  POEMS 

Page  199. —  (From  A  Dome  of  Many-Colored  Glass) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "The  Bombardment.") 

Miss  Lowell  has  always  admired  greatly  the  works  of  John  Keats. 

(When  did  he  live,  and  what  are  some  of  his  most  famous  poems?)     As 

perhaps   you    remember,    he   died    of   consumption   when    he   was    only 

twenty-six. 
How  would  you  know  that  the  author  of  this  poem  was  a  lover  of  the 

great  out-doors? 


Page  201. —  (From  The  Transcript) 

Agnes  Kendrick  Gray  was  born  in  1894.  She  has  lived  on  army  posts 
in  this  country  and  the  Philippines  and  traveled  in  China,  Japan,  and 
Hawaii.  She  graduated  from  Leland  Stanford  in  1915,  and  studied  at 
Radcliffe  1916-1917.  She  has  been  Assistant  Editor  and  Translator  of 
The  New  France,  and  published  a  translation  of  a  French  book  on 
spiritualism.  Her  poems  have  appeared  in  magazines  and  anthologies. 

How  many  people  do  you  know  whose  opinion  of  poets  resembles  the 
shepherd's?  Do  you  think  these  "benighted  brethren"  could  ever  ba 
converted?  What  makes  a  man  useful,  jn  this,  world? 


NOTES  257 


TO  YOURSELF 

Page  201. —  (From  Grenst one  Poems) 

(For  biographical  note,  refer  to  "Little  Pan.") 

What  element  present  in  most  good  poetry  is  emphasized  here?  Do 
you  think  the  poetic  instinct  is  inherent  in  the  majority  of  people, 
needing  merely  a  chance  for  expression?  Can  one  cultivate  the  habit 
of  expressing  himself  in  poetry?  Would  such  a  habit  be  worth  while? 
Have  any  poems  in  this  book  made  you  wish  that  you  could  write  poetry  ? 


SUPPLEMENTARY  READING  LIST 

Here  are  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  additional  titles  of 
recent  poems  you  may  like.  All  but  a  few  may  be  found  in 
volumes  published  by  the  poets  themselves,  and  if  you  have 
access  to  a  good  library,  it  is  fun  to  hunt  them  up  in  those 
volumes.  But  since  the  average  school  library  contains  merely 
anthologies  of  modern  verse,  only  those  poems  are  given  here 
which  may  also  be  found  in  one  or  more  of  twelve  well-known 
collections,  as  follows : 

Braithwaite,  Golden  Treasury  of  Magazine  Verse. 

Braithwaite,  Modern  British  Verse 

Clarke,  Treasury  of  AYar  Poetry  (2  series) 

Foccroft,  War  Verse 

Monroe  and  Henderson,  The  New  Poetry 

Poetry  Bookshop    (publishers),  Georgian  Poetry,  1911-1919 

(separate  volumes) 
Richards,  High-Tide 

RittenJioiise,  Little  Book  of  Mbdern  Verse 
Rittcnhouse,  Second  Book  of  Modern  Verse 
Wilkinson,  New  Voices 
Untermeyer,  Modern  American  Poetry 
Untermeyer,  Modern  British  Poetry 

With  this  limitation,  the  list  is  by  no  means  a  complete  one. 
It  omits  some  poems  not  yet  released  to  anthologies,  like 
"Greatheart"  by  KIPLING,  and  "Smoke  and  Steel"  by  SAND- 
BURG; long  poems  like  "Dauber"  by  MASEFIELD  (part  of  this, 
however,  is  given  in  Modern  British  Poetry)  ;  Crescent  Moon 
by  TAGORE  (translated  from  the  Bengali),  and  Peacock  Pie  by 
DE  LA  MARE,  volumes  of  child  poems;  negro  songs  and  cow- 
boy ballads,  like  Fifty  Years  and  Other  Poems,  by  JAMES 
WELDON  JOHNSON  and  the  two  anthologies,  Cowboy  Songs  and 
Songs  of  the  Cattle  Trail  by  JOHN  A.  LOMAX. 

All  these  you  would  enjoy.  However,  by  the  time  you  have 
finished  even  half  of  the  poems  mentioned  here,  you  will  be 
familiar  enough  with  the  names  of  contemporary  poets  to 
continue  your  researches  for  yourself. 

258 


SUPPLEMENTARY  READING  LIST  259 

Aiken,  Miracles,  Morning  Song  of  Senlin 

Aldington,  In  the  Trenches,  In  the  British  Museum,  To  a 

Greek  Marble 
Anonymous  (Foxcroft),  The  Voices,  "They  Also  Serve  ..." 

Crocuses  at  Nottingham 
Belloc,  The  South  Country 
Benet,  8.  V.,  Portrait  of  a  Boy 
Bewsher,  Searchlights 
Botiomley,  Netted  Strawberries 
Branch,  Songs  for  My  Mother 
Brooke,  The  Dead,  The  Fish 
Brown,  A.  F.,  The  Heritage 
Burnet,  Gayheart 

Burr,  Lie-Awake  Songs,  Kitchener's  March,  Where  Love  Is 
Bynner,  A  Thrush  in  the  Moonlight 
Campbell,  J.,  I  am  the  Mountainy  Singer 
Campbell,  N.,  The  Monkey 
Campbell,  W.,  Langemarck  at  Ypres 
Carma-n,  Lord  of  My  Heart's  Elation 
Carruth,  Each  in  His  Own  Tongue 
Gather,  " Grandmither,  Think  Not  I  Forget" 
Cawein,  An  bade 
Chapman,  Song  of  the  Zeppelin 
Chesterton,  The  Song  of  Elf,  Lepanto 
Coates,  Indian-Pipe 
Conk-ling,  Refugees 
Corbin,  Echoes  of  Childhood 
Crapsey,  Cinquains 

Daly,  Da  Leetla  Boy,  Mia  Carlotta,  Song  of  the  Thrush 
Dames,  W.  H.,  The  Ptain 
Davis,  F.  S.,  Souls 
De  la  Mare,  The  Listeners,  Nod 
Dobson,  "When  There  Is  Peace" 
H.  D.,  Orchard,  Oread,  The  Shrine 
Doyle,  The  Guards  Came  Through 

Drinkwater,  Symbols,  Politics,  May  Garden,   The  Midlands 
Drummond,  Little  Bateese,  Little  Lac  Grenier 
Dun-bar,  Hymn,  A  Coquette  Conquered 
Dunsany,  Songs  from  an  Evil  Wood 
Ficke,  "I  am  in  love  with  far,  high-seeing  places" 


260  SUPPLEMENTARY  READING  LIST 

Fletcher,  Rain  in  the  Desert,  Lincoln 

Forman,  The  Three  Lads 

Frank,  The  Jew  to  Jesus 

Freeman,  Music  Comes,  November  Skies 

Frost,  Mending  Wall,  The  Gum-Gatherer 

Gibson,  Color,  Oblivion,  Gold,  The  Messages 

Gilbert,  The  Mandrake's  Horrid  Scream 

Glasgow,  A  Lullaby 

Gore-Booth,  The  Waves  of  Breffny 

Graves,  It's  a  Queer  Time 

Guiney,  Tryste  Noel 

Guiterman,  In  the  Hospital 

Hardy,  The  Man  He  Killed 

Hodgson,  Eve 

Housman,  Reveille 

Hovey,  The  Sea  Gypsy 

Hueffer,  Children's  Song 

Kilmer,  J.,  Martin 

Kipling,  The  Choice,  Road-Song  of  the  Bandar  Log,  Gunga 

Din,  The  Conundrum  of  the  Workshops 
Kreymborg,  A.,  Idealists,  Old  Manuscript 
Lawrence,  D.  H.,  Piano 
Ledwidge,  Behind  the  Closed  Eye 
Lee,  A.,  Motherhood 

Letts,  Chaplain  to  the  Forces,  The  Call  To  Arms  in  Our  Street 
Lindsay,  The  Santa  Fe  Trail,  Abraham  Lincoln  Walks  at 

Midnight,  The  Congo,  The  Chinese  Nightingale 
Lowell,  Patterns,  Madonna  of  the  Evening  Flowers,  To  A  Lady 
MacDonagh,  Wishes  For  My  Son 
MacGill,  Before  the  Charge 
MacKaye,  School 
Markham,  Lincoln,  The  Man  of  the  People;  The  Man  with 

the  Hoe 

Masefield,  Tewksbury  Road,  The  Island  of  Skyros 
Masters,  Lucinda  Matlock 
Monro,  Milk  for  the  Cat,  Solitude 
Monroe,  Love  Song,  On  the  Porch 
Morgan,  Work,  The  Choice 
Morley,  To  the  Oxford  Men  in  the  War 
Morton,  Symbol 
Neibardt,  Let  Me  Live  Out  My  Years 


SUPPLEMENTARY  BEADING  LIST  261 

Newbolt,  Drake's  Drum 

Nichols,  The  Assault,  The  Full  Heart 

Norton,  I  Give  Thanks 

Noyes,  Kilmeny,  A  Song  of  Sherwood,  Unity 

Oppenheim,  The  Lonely  Child,  The  Slave 

Owen,  Three  Hills 

Patch,  My  Rosary 

Peabody,  A  Dog,  Cradle  Song,  The  House  and  the  Road 

Phillips,  The  Kaiser  and  Belgium 

Phillpotts,  Death  and  the  Flowers 

Pound,  Piccadilly 

Kendall,  The  Wind 

Reese,  A  Christmas  Folk-Song 

Rice,  The  Immortal,  Chanson  of  the  Bells  of  Oseney 

Robinson,  E.  A.,  Cassandra,  Flammonde 

Sandburg,  Cool  Tombs,  Loam,  Grass 

Sassoon,  Dreamers,  Aftermath 

Schauffler,  R.  H.,  "Scum  o'  the  Earth" 

Scollard,  The  King  of  Dreams 

Seaman,  Thomas  of  the  Light  Heart 

Service,  Fleurette 

Shepard,  A  Nun 

Simms,  The  Bridge-Builders 

Sorley,  To  Germany 

Squire,  To  a  Bull-Dog 

Stephens,  In  the  Poppy  Field,  What  Tomas  An  Buile  Said  in 

a  Pub 

Sterling,  Omnia  Exeunt  in  Mysterium 
Teasdale,  The  Lamp,  Spring  Night 
Tietjens,  The  Most-Sacred  Mountain 
Torrence,  The  Son 
Trotter,  The  Poplars 

Tynan,  High  Summer,  The  Making  of  Birds 
Tyrrell,  My  Son 
JJntermeyer,  J.  S.,  Autumn 

Untermeyer,  L.,  Summons,  Caliban  in  the  Coal-Mines 
Upcott,  Brother  Fidelis 
Watson,  The  Battle  of  the  Bight 
Wheelock,  Earth,  Spring 
Widdemer,  A  Cyprian  Woman 
Williams,  Sicilian  Emigrant's  Song 


262  SUPPLEMENTARY  READING  LIST 

Woodberry,  The  Child 

Yeats,  The  Ballad  of  Father  Gilligan 

A  short  list  of  books  containing  criticism  or  discussing  mat- 
ters of  poetic  technique  is  also  given.  Most  of  them  are  fairly 
difficult  reading,  but  if  you  are  really  interested  to  pursue  the 
subject  further,  they  are  well  worth  while. 

Aiken,  Skepticisms 

Fletcher,  Preface  to  Irradiations 

Fletcher,  Preface  to  Goblins  and  Pagodas 

Lowes,  Convention  and  Revolt  in  Poetry 

Lowell,  Tendencies  in  Modern  American  Poetry,  Preface  to 

Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seed 
Newbolt,  A  New  Study  of  English  Poetry 
Perry,  A  Study  of  Poetry 
Phelps,  The  Advance  of  English  Poetry  in  the  Twentieth 

Century 
Untermeyer,  The  New  Era  in  American  Poetry 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

For  biographical  sketch  of  author  see  note  for  first  poem  listed. 

A  Poem    Note 

A.  E.,  see  RUSSELL,  GEORGE  W. 
ALDINGTON,  RICHARD, 

The  Faun  Sees  Snow  for  the  First  Time 188      25t> 

B 

BAKER,  KARLE  WILSON, 

Good  Company 70       225 

The  Small  Town  Celebrates Ill       235 

BANGS,  JOHN  KENDRICK, 

My  Dog 133       240 

BENET,  WILLIAM  ROSE, 

The  Horse  Thief 75      227 

BEWSHER,  PAUL, 

The  Dawn  Patrol 103       234 

BINYON,  LAURENCE, 

The  Dead  to  the  Living 97      232 

BRIDGES,  ROBERT, 

A  Vignette 67      224 

BROOKE,  RUPERT, 

The  Soldier 95       231 

Song   144      243 

The  Great  Lover 166       249 

BROWN,  ABBIE  FARWELL, 

Pirate  Treasure 16      213 

BURNET,  DANA, 

Roses  in  the  Subway 25      216 

The  Park  29       217 

BURR,  AMELIA  JOSEPHINE, 

A  Lynmouth  Widow 152      245 

BYNNER,  WITTER, 

Little  Pan 125      238 

A  Farmer  Remembers  Lincoln 170       250 

To  Yourself 201      257 

263 


264  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

BYRNE,  MURIEL  ST.  CLARE,  Poem    Note 

Dagonet,  Arthur's  Fool 192      255 

C 

CARMAN,  BLISS, 

A  Mountain  Gateway 53      221 

A  Vagabond  Song 58  222 

COLUM,  PADRAIC, 

An  Old  Woman  of  the  Roads 127  239 

CONKLING,  GRACE  HAZARD, 

Rheims  Cathedral— 1914 88  229 

CONKLING,  HILDA, 

The  Dew-Light 121  237 

CORNFORD,  FRANCES  D., 

People    143      242 

D 
DALY,  T.  A., 

Een  Napoli 22       215 

Da  Younga  'Merican 124      238 

DAVIES,  MARY  CAROLYN, 

Songs  of  a  Girl 149       245 

DAVIES,  WILLIAM  H., 

A  Greeting 57      222 

DAVIS,  FANNIE  STEARNS, 

Wild  Weather 4       208 

The  Ancient  Beautiful  Things 128       239 

DAWSON,  A.  J.  E., 

Night  in  Mesopotamia 102      233 

DE  LA  MARE,  WALTER, 

The  Ship  of  Rio 6      211 

The  Sunken  Garden 136       241 

DRINKWATER,  JOHN, 

In  Lady  Street 31       218 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM  HENRY, 

The  Devil 179       252 

DUNBAR,  PAUL  LAURENCE, 

My  Sweet  Brown  Gal 135      240 

E 
EATON,  WALTER  PRICHARD, 

My  Friend 143       242 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  265 

F 

FLECKER,  JAMES  ELROY,  P°em  Note 

The  Old  Ships 12  213 

FLETCHER,  JOHN  GOULD, 

Irradiations,  III ,  11  212 

Irradiations,  X 70  225 

FROST,  ROBERT, 

To  the  Thawing  Wind 48  219 

After  Apple-Picking 60  223 

Birches    63  224 

G 

GALSWORTHY,  JOHN, 

Courage    164      248 

GARRISON,  THEODOSIA, 

The  Green  Inn 43      218 

GIBSON,  WILFRID  WILSON, 

The  Return 83      227 

Retreat    101      233 

GOING,  CHARLES  BUXTON, 

Garden  of  the  Rose 148      244 

GRAVES,  ROBERT, 

To  Lucasta  on  Going  to  the  War — For  the  Fourth 

Time    100      233 

GRAY,  AGNES  KENDRICK, 

The  Shepherd  to  the  Poet 201      256 

GUITERMAN,  ARTHUR, 

The  Rag  Dolly's  Valentine 119      237 

Etiquette 189      254 

H 
HAGEDORN,  HERMANN, 

Broadway 23      215 

The  Peddler 24      216 

HENDERSON,  ALICE  CORBIN, 

Parting 152      246 

HERSEY,  MARIE  LOUISE, 

Provincetown 159      247 

HODGSON,  RALPH, 

Time,  You  Old  Gypsy  Man 157      247 

HOOKER,  BRIAN, 

A  Man-Child's  Lullaby 117      236 


266  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

HORNE,  CYRIL  MORTON,  Poem    Note 

The  Devout  Highlander 91  230 

HOVEY,  RICHARD, 

A  Vagabond  Song 58  222 

HOYT,  HELEN, 

Ellis  Park 28  217 

HUEFPER,  FORD  MADOX, 

The  Old  Houses  of  Flanders 87      229 

J 
JOHNSON,  BURGES, 

The  Anxious  Farmer 120       237 

Incorrigible    123      238 

K 
KILMER,  ALINE, 

Justice    118      236 

KILMER,  JOYCE, 

Trees  71      225 

Prayer  of  a  Soldier  in  France 110      235 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD, 

The  Feet  of  the  Young  Men,  1897 44      219 

Recessional 161      248 

If 163      248 

KREYMBORG,  ALFRED, 

America    161      248 

L 

LEDWIDGE,  FRANCIS, 

The   Shadow  People 122      238 

To  a  Distant  One 146      243 

LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD, 

Brooklyn  Bridge  at  Dawn 21      214 

May  is  Building  Her  House 51      220 

LETTS,  W.  M., 

The  Spires  of  Oxford 94      230 

In  Service 134      240 

LINDSAY,  VACHEL, 

An  Indian  Summer  Day  on  the  Prairie 56      222 

General  William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven 176      252 

The  Potatoes'  Dance..  190      254 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  267 

LOMAX,  JOHN  A.,                                                                     Poem  Note 

The  Cowboys  Dream  (Editor) 175  251 

LOWELL,  AMY, 

The  Bombardment   84  228 

The  Garden  by  Moonlight 137  241 

Suggested  by  The  Cover  of  a  Volume  of  Keats's  Poems  199  256 

LYSAGHT,  SIDNEY  ROYCE, 

The  Penalty  of  Love 153  246 


M 

McCRAE,  JOHN  A., 

In  Flanders  Fields 96      231 

MACKAYE,  PERCY, 

Baby  Pantomime 117      236 

Sunset    172      250 

MAt'MiLLAN,  MARY, 

The  Little  Golden  Fountain 149      244 

MARK  HAM,  EDWIN, 

A  Creed 165      249 

MASEFIELD,  JOHN, 

Sea-Fever 3      207 

Cargoes 12      213 

Sing  a  Song  o'  Shipwreck 14      213 

The  Final  Spurt 72      226 

MASTERS,  EDGAR  LEE, 

Silence    172      251 

MAYNARD,  THEODORE, 

The  World's  Miser 68      225 

MILLAY,  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT, 

God's  World 60      223 

MONROE,  HARRIET, 

At  Twilight 30       217 

MORLEY,  CHRISTOPHER, 

Smells — Junior   119       237 

The  Reflection 151      245 

When  Shakespeare  Laughed 199      256 

N 
NICHOLS,  ROBERT, 

Noon   99      232 


268  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

NOYES,  ALFRED,                                                                      Poem  Note 

The  Barrel-Organ 34  218 

An  Open  Boat 105  234 

"The  Avenue  of  the  Allies" 107  235 

Forty  Singing  Seamen 194  255 

P 
PEABODY,  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON, 

You,  Four  Walls,  Wall  Not  in  My  Heart 132      240 

R 
RICE,  GALE  YOUNG, 

Brother  Beasts 62      223 

RILEY,  JAMES  WHITCOMB, 

Mister  Hop-Toad 49      220 

ROBINSON,  CORINNE  ROOSEVELT, 

To  My  Brother 141      241 

ROBINSON,  EDWIN  ARLINGTON, 

Richard  Cory 170      250 

RUSSELL,  GEORGE  W.  (A.  E.), 

Continuity   114      235 

S 

SANDBURG,  CARL, 

Fog  21      214 

Prayers  of  Steel 27      216 

Three  Pieces  on  the  Smoke  of  Autumn 58      223 

SASSOON,  SIEGFRIED, 

Night-Piece    71       226 

Counter- Attack  98      232 

Does  It  Matter?  103       234 

SEEGER,  ALAN,  * 

I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death 95       231 

SERVICE,  ROBERT  W., 

Funk  90       230 

SIGERSON,  DORA, 

The  Road  of  the  Refugees 83      227 

SMITH,  CICELY  Fox, 

Sailor  Town ,       5      210 

Admiral  Dugout 105      234 

SQUIRE,  J.  C., 

Sonnet ,   159      247 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  269 

STRONG,  L.  A.  G.,  Poem    Note 

Rufus  Prays 126      239 

T 
TEASDALE,  SARA, 

The  Look   145       243 

Barter  157      246 

THOMAS,  EDWARD, 

Haymaking 54      221 

TIETJENS,  EUNICE, 

Psalm  to  My  Beloved 150       245 

TOWNE,  CHARLES  HANSON, 

City  Roofs 22      215 

TRENCH,  HERBERT, 

Old  Anchor  Chanty 7      211 

TYNAN,  KATHERINE, 

The  Old  Soldier 89      229 

U 

UNTERMEYER,  JEAN  STARR, 

High-Tide    5      208 

UNTERMEYER,  Louis, 

Highmount   65       224 

Prayer 164      249 

V 
VAN  DYKE,  HENRY, 

A  Mile  with  Me 142      242 

W 

WELLS,  CAROLYN, 

To  a  Poet ,     50      220 

WIDDEMER,  MARGARET, 

The  Factories 26      216 

"Mary,  Helper  of  Heartbreak" 147      243 

Gifts    168      250 

Y 
YEATS,  WILLIAM  B., 

The  Host  of  the  Air 185      253 

The  Fiddler  of  Doonev..  187      253 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 

A 

Poem  Note 

Admiral  Dugout  C.  Fox  Smith 105  234 

After  Apple-Picking   Robert  Frost 60  223 

America    Alfred  Kreymborg  . .   161  248 

Ancient  Beautiful  Things,  The Fannie  S.  Davis 128  239 

Anxious  Farmer,  The Burges  Johnson  ....   120  237 

At  Twilight   Harriet  Monroe 30  217 

"Avenue  of  the  Allies,  The" Alfred  Noyes 107  235 

B 

Baby  Pantomime Percy  MacKaye 117  236 

Barrel-Organ,  The Alfred  Noyes 34  218 

Barter   Sara  Teasdale 157  246 

Birches    Robert  Frost 63  224 

Bombardment,  The , Amy  Lowell 84  228 

Broadway  Hermann  Hagedorn  .     23  215 

Brooklyn  Bridge  at  Dawn Rich.  Le  Gallienne. . .     21  214 

Brother  Beasts   Gale  Young  Rice 62  223 

C 

Cargoes  John  Masefield 12  213 

City  Roofs  Charles  H.  Towne. . .     22  215 

Continuity    A.  E 114  235 

Counter- Attack   Siegfried  Sassoon  ...     98  232 

Courage John  Galsworthy  . . .   164  248 

Cowboy's  Dream,  The Anon 175  251 

Creed,  A Edwin  Markham 165  249 

D 

Da  Younga  'Merican T.  A.  Daly 124  238 

Dagonet,  Arthur's  Fool M.  St.  Clare  Byrne. .   192  255 

Dawn  Patrol,  The , .  .Paul  Bewsher 103  234 

Dead  to  the  Living,  The Laurence  Binyon  ...     97  232 

Devil,  The Wm.  H.  Drummond.   179  252 

Devout  Highlander,  The Cyril  M.  Home 91  230 

271 


272  INDEX  OF  TITLES 

Poem  Note 

Dew-Light,  The Hilda  Conkling 121  237 

Does  It  Matter? Siegfried  Sassoon  . .  103  234 

E 

Een  Napoli T.  A.  Daly 22  215 

Ellis  Park Helen  Hoy t 28  217 

Etiquette Arthur  Guiterman  . .   189  254 

F 

Factories,  The  Margaret  Widdemer.     26  216 

Farmer  Remembers  Lincoln,  A. ...  Witter  Bynner 170  250 

Faun  Sees  Snow  for  the  First  Time, 

The    Richard  Aldington  . .   188  J53 

Feet  of  the  Young  Men,  The Rudyard  Kipling  ...     44  219 

Fiddler  of  Dooney,  The W.  B.  Yeats 187  253 

Final  Spurt,  The John  Masefield 72  226 

Fog    Carl  Sandburg 21  214 

Forty  Singing  Seamen Alfred  Noyes 194  255 

Funk   Robert  W.  Service. .     90  230 

a 

Garden  by  Moonlight,  The Amy  Lowell 137  241 

Garden  of  the  Rose Charles  B.  Going 148  244 

General  William  Booth  Enters 

Heaven  Vachel  Lindsay 176  252 

Gifts    Margaret  Widdemer.  168  258 

God's  World Edna  St.  Vincent 

Millay 60  223 

Good  Company Karle  W.  Baker 70  225 

Great  Lover,  The Rupert  Brooke 166  249 

Green  Inn,  The Theodosia  Garrison. .     43  218 

Greeting,  A   William  H.  Davies. . .     57  222 

H 

Haymaking    Edward  Thomas 54  221 

Highmount Louis  Untermeyer. . .     65  224 

High-Tide J    S.  Untermeyer 5  208 

Horse  Thief,  The Wm.  Rose  Benet 75  227 

Host  of  the  Air,  The. W.  B.  Teats. .           .  185  253 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  273 

I 

Poem  Note 

I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death . .  Alan  Seeger 95  231 

If Rudyard  Kipling  ...   163  248 

In  Flanders  Fields John  McCrae 96  231 

In  Lady  Street John  Drinkwater. ...     31  218 

In  Service W.  M.  Letts 134  240 

Incorrigible    Surges  Johnson  ....   123  238 

Indian  Summer  Day  on  the  Prairie, 

An    Vachel  Lindsay    ....     56  222 

Irradiations,  III   John  G.  Fletcher 11  212 

Irradiations,  X   John  G.  Fletcher 70  225 

J 

Justice Aline  Kilmer 118  236 

L 

Little  Golden  Fountain,  The Mary  MacMillan 149  244 

Little  Pan Witter  Bynner 125  238 

Look,  The Sara  Teasdale 145  243 

Lynmouth  Widow,  A Amelia  J.  Burr 152  245 

M 

Man-Child's  Lullaby,  A Brian  Hooker 117  236 

"Mary,  Helper  of  Heartbreak" Margaret  Widdemer.  147  243 

May  Is  Building  Her  House Rich.  Le  Gallienne.. .     51  220 

Mile  with  Me,  A Henry  van  Dyke ....   142  242 

Mister  Hop-Toad James  Whitcumb 

Riley 49  220 

Mountain  Gateway,  A Bliss  Carman 53  221 

My  Dog John  Kendrick  Bangs  133  240 

My  Friend   Walter  P.  Eaton 143  242 

My  Sweet  Brown  Gal Paul  L.  Dunbar 135  240 

N 

Night  in  Mesopotamia A.  J.  E.  Dawson. . . .   102  233 

Night-Piece Siegfried  Sassoon ...     71  226 

Noon  (I  from  "Battle") Robert  Nichols 99  232 

0 

Old  Anchor  Chanty Herbert  Trench 7  211 

Old  Houses  of  Flanders,  The Ford  M.  Hueffer 87  229 


274  INDEX  OF  TITLES 

Poem  Note 

Old  Ships,  The James  E.  Flecker 12  213 

Old  Soldier,  The Katherine  Tynan 89  229 

Old  Woman  of  the  Roads,  An Padraic  Colum 127  239 

Open  Boat,  An Alfred  Noyes 105  234 

P 

Park,  The Dana  Burnet 29  217 

Parting   Alice  C.  Henderson. .  152  246 

Peddler,  The   Hermann  Hagedorn. .  24  216 

Penalty  of  Love,  The Sidney  R.  Lysaght. .  153  246 

People   Frances  D.   Cornford  143  242 

Pirate  Treasure Abbie  F.  Brown 16  213 

Potatoes'  Dance,  The Vachel  Lindsay 190  254 

Prayer Louis  Untermeyer. . .  164  249 

Prayer  of  a  Soldier  in  France Joyce  Kilmer ,110  235 

Prayers  of  Steel Carl  Sandburg 27  216 

Provincetown   Marie  L.  Hersey ....  159  247 

Psalm  to  My  Beloved Eunice  Tietjens 150  245 

R 

Rag  Dolly's  Valentine,  The Arthur  Guiterman. . .  119  237 

Recessional   Eudyard  Kipling  .  . .  161  248 

Reflection,   The   Christopher  Morley. .  151  245 

Retreat    Wilfrid  W.  Gibson. .  101  233 

Return,  The Wilfrid  W.  Gibson. .  83  227 

Rheims  Cathedral— 1914  Grace  H.  Conkling. .  88  229 

Richard  Cory Edwin  A.  Robinson. .  170  250 

Road  of  the  Refugees,  The Dora  Sigerson 83  227 

Roses  in  the  Subway Dana  Burnet 25  216 

Rufus  Prays L.  A.  G.  Strong 126  239 

S 

Sailor  Town C.  Fox  Smith 5  210 

Sea-Fever   John  Masefield 3  207 

Shadow  People,  The Francis  Ledwidge. . .  122  238 

Shepherd  to  the  Poet,  The Agnes  K.  Gray 201  256 

Ship  of  Rio,  The Walter  de  la  Mare. .  6  211 

Silence    Edgar  Lee  Masters. .  172  251 

Sing  a  Song  o'  Shipwreck John  Masefield 14  213 

Small  Town  Celebrates,  The Karle  W.  Baker 111  235 

Smells— Junior    Christopher  Morley. .  119  237 

Soldier.  The Rupert  Brooke 95  231 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  275 

Poem     Note 

Song Rupert  Brooke 144       243 

Songs  of  a  Girl Mary  C.  Davies 149       245 

Sonnet J.  C.  Squire 159      247 

Spires  of  Oxford W.  M.  Letts 94      230 

Suggested  by  the  Cover  of  a  Volume 

of  Keats's  Poems Amy  Lowell 199       256 

Sunken  Garden,  The Walter  de  la  Mare. .  136       241 

Sunset   Percy  MacKaye 172      250 

T 
Three  Pieces  on  the  Smoke  of 

Autumn Carl  Sandburg 58       223 

Time,  You  Old  Gypsy  Man Ralph  Hodgson 157      247 

To  a  Distant  One Francis  Ledwidge . . .  146       243 

To  a  Poet Carolyn  Wells 50       220 

To  Lucasta  on  Going  to  the  War — 

For  the  Fourth  Time Robert  Graves 100       233 

To  My  Brother Corinne  Roosevelt 

Robinson   141       241 

To  the  Thawing  Wind Robert  Frost 48      219 

To  Yourself Witter  Bynner 201       257 

Trees   Joyce  Kilmer 71      225 

V 

Vagabond  Song,  A Bliss  Carman  and 

Richard  Eovey 58      222 

Vignette,  A Robert  Bridges 67      224 

W 

When  Shakespeare  Laughed Christopher  Morley. .  199      256 

Wild  Weather   Fannie  S.  Davis 4       208 

World's  Miser,  The Theodore  Maynard. .  68       225 

Y 

You,  Four  Walls,  Wall  Not  in 

My  Heart Josephine  Preston 

Peabody.... 132      240 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

A  black  cat  among  roses 137 

A  lady  loved  a  swaggering  rover 16 

A  miser  with  an  eager  face   68 

A  quiver  in  the  hot  and  breathless  air 102 

A  wan-cheeked  girl  with  faded  eyes 25 

A  winged  death  has  smitten  dumb  thy  belis 88 

Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  Mogadore  we  plodded 194 

After  night's  thunder  far  away  had  rolled 54 

Along  de  road  from  Bord  a  Plouffe 179 

Along  the  wharves  in  sailor  town  a  singing  whisper  goes 5 

All  day  long  the  traffic  goes  31 

All  day  the  children  play  along  the  walks 29 

All  summer  in  the  close-locked  streets  the  crowd 159 

Among  the  meadows   67 

At  the  sixth  green  field  came  the  long  slow  climb 72 

Behold  where  Night  clutches  the  cup  of  heaven 172 

Booth  led  boldly  with  his  big  bass  drum 176 

Broken,  bewildered  by  the  long  retreat 101 

Come  with  rain,  0  loud  Southwester  48 

Courage  is  but  a  word,  and  yet,  of  words 164 

Dagonet,  Arthur's  fool 192 

Does  it  matter? — losing  your  leg 103 

"Down  cellar,"  said  the  cricket  190 

God  does  not  give  us,  when  our  youth  is  done 168 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old 161 

God,  though  this  life  is  but  a  wraith 164 

Good  morning,  Life — and  all 57 

277 


278  INDEX 

PAGE 

He  had  done  with  fleets  and  squadrons,  with  the  restless,  roam- 
ing seas    105 

He  lolled  on  a  bollard,  a  sun-burned  son  of  the  sea 14 

He  was  straight  and  strong,  and  his  eyes  were  blue 152 

He  went,  and  he  was  gay  to  go 83 

Her  heart  is  like  a  garden  fair 148 

Here  een  Noo  Yorka,  where  am  I 22 

Hills,  you  have  answered  the  craving 65 

How  like  the  stars  are  these  white,  nameless  faces 23 

Howdy,  Mister  Hop- Toad!     Glad  to  see  you  out 49 

I  am  all  alone  in  the  room 128 

I  edged  back  against  the  night  5 

I  guess  I'm  bad  as  I  can  be  123 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death    95 

I  have  been  so  great  a  lover;  filled  my  days 166 

I  have  known  the  silence  of  the  stars  and  of  the  sea 172 

I  have  no  dog,  but  it  must  be 133 

I  have  not  heard  her  voice,  nor  seen  her  face 151 

I  have  seen  old  ships  sail  like  swans  asleep   12 

I  have  shut  my  little  sister  in  from  life  and  light 26 

I  know  a  vale  where  I  would  go  one  day 53 

I  loved  you  for  your  loving  ways 141 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  tl^e  lonely  sea  and  the  sky  . .  3 

I,  Mysal',  I  feela  strange 124 

I  peddles  pencils  on  Broadway 24 

I  saw  the  spires  of  Oxford 94 

I  sicken  of  men's  company  43 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 71 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me 95 

If  Love  should  count  you  worthy,  and  should  deign 153 

If  you  can  keep  your  head  when  all  about  you 163 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow  .  . . , 96 

In  the  darkening  church   126 

In  the  gray  skirts  of  the  fog  seamews  skirl  desolately 11 

It  doesn't  matter  what's  the  cause 100 

It  is  midday :  the  deep  trench  glares 90 

It  was  awful  long  ago 120 

Last  night  as  I  lay  on  the  prairie 175 

Lay  me  on  an  anvil,  0  God  27 


INDEX  279 

PAGE 

Lest  the  young  soldiers  be  strange  in  Heaven 89 

Life  has  loveliness  to  sell 157 

Like  to  islands  in  the  seas  143 

"Lincoln  T'    170 

Listen,  laddies :     Gin  ye  go  into  the  battle,  be  devout 91 

Listen  to  the  tramping!     Oh,  God  of  pity,  listen !  83 

Little  groping  hands  that  must  learn  the  weight  of  labor 117 

Little  Nellie  Cassidy  has  got  a  place  in  town 134 

Little  park  that  I  pass  through 28 

Lo,  I  have  opened  unto  you  the  wide  gates  of  my  being 150 

May  is  building  her  house.     With  apple  blooms 51 

Michael,  come  in !     Stop  crying  at  the  door  118 

My  Daddy  smells  like  tobacco  and  books  119 

My  long  two-pointed  ladder's  sticking  through  a  tree 60 

My  shoulders  ache  beneath  my  pack 110 

No  sign  is  made  while  empires  pass 114 

Now  I  go,  do  not  weep,  woman 152 

Now  the  Four-way  Lodge  is  opened,  now  the  Hunting  Winds 

are  loose   44 

0,  to  have  a  little  house  127 

O,  what  is  that  whimpering  there  in  the  darkness 105 

0,  who  will  walk  a  mile  with  me  142 

O  world,  I  cannot  hold  thee  close  enough 60 

0,  you  that  still  have  rain  and  sun   97 

Och,  what's  the  good  o'  spinnin'  words 201 

O'Driscoll  drove  with  a  song 185 

Oh,  it's  "ah,  fare  you  well,"  for  the  deep  sea's  crying 6 

"Oh!  Love,"  they  said,  "is  King  of  Kings" 144 

Oh,  nay  heart  is  a  little  golden  fountain  149 

Old  lame  Bridget  doesn't  hear   122 

Out  of  the  cleansing  night  of  stars  and  tides 21 

Out  on  the  hill — by  an  autumn-tree 125 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir 12 

Roof-tops,  roof-tops,  what  do  you  cover 22 

Serene,  he  sits  on  other  shores  117 

Slowly,  without  force,  the  rain  drops  into  the  city 84 


280  INDEX 

PAGE 

Smoke  of  autumn  is  on  it  all 58 

Sometimes  I  fly  at  dawn  above  the  sea 103 

Speak  not — whisper  not   136 

Strephon  kissed  me  in  the  spring 145 

Talking  to  people  in  well-ordered  ways  is  prose 201 

The  Dew-Man  comes  over  the  mountains  wide  121 

The  fog  comes  on  little  cat  feet 21 

The  friend  I  love  is  like  the  sea  to  me 143 

The  Gossips  tell  a  story  of  the  Sparrow  and  the  Cat 189 

The  old  houses  of  Flanders   87 

The  sea  was  wild.     The  wind  was  proud 4 

The  sun  is  a  huntress  young  56 

The  trees,  like  great  jade  elephants 70 

There  he  moved,  cropping  the  grass  at  the  purple  canyon's  lip  .  75 

There's  a  barrel-organ  caroling  across  a  golden  street 34 

There  is  a  destiny  that  makes  us  brothers  165 

There  is  something  in  the  autumn  that  is  native  to  my  blood  . .  58 

There  was  a  ship  of  Rio 6 

There  was  an  Indian,  who  had  known  no  change 159 

This  is  the  song  of  the  wind  as  it  came 107 

Though  others  think  I  stare  with  eyes  unseeing 119 

Through  wild  by-ways  I  come  to  you,  my  love 146 

Time,  you  old  gypsy  man 157 

To-day  I  have  grown  taller  from  walking  with  the  trees 70 

Up  and  down  he  goes  with  terrible,  reckless  strides 161 

We'd  gained  our  first  objective  hours  before 98 

We  tumbled  out  into  the  starry  dark   Ill 

Well,  if  the  thing  is  over,  better  it  is  for  me 147 

W'en  de  clouds  is  hanging  heavy  in  de  sky   135 

"When  I  play  on  my  fiddle  in  Dooney 187 

When  I  see  birches  bend  to  left  and  right 63 

When  Shakespeare  laughed,  the  fun  began 199 

When  your  marrer  bone  seems  'oiler 90 

Whenever  Richard  Cory  went  down  town   170 

Wild  little  bird,  who  chose  thee  for  a  sign 199 

Winter  is  here  .                                                                             ...  62 


INDEX  281 

PAGE 

With  a  long  heavy  heave,  my  very  famous  men 7 

Within  the  little  house    149 

Ye  hooded  witches,  baleful  shapes  that  moan 71 

Yes,  Poet,  I  am  coming  down  to  earth 50 

You  are  a  painter — listen   30 

You,  Four  Walls 132 

Zeus>  Brazen-thunder-hurler  188 


A     000032187     7 


